The Little Man
by showmaster64x
Summary: Owen Lars has doubts about where his loyalties ought to lie. With the Jedi, Kenobi, whom he has met once, or with a man who is supposed to be part of his family. Meanwhile, Boba Fett begins to piece things together quite accidentally. AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is an AU featuring Owen Lars who contemplates his relationship to Vader and struggles with the task he is given by Obi-wan. For the purpose of this story, Obi-Wan does not stay on Tatooine after dropping off Luke as a baby. Instead, he decides to hide out on Alderaan.

I've watched all the movies as well as Clone Wars and Rebels. I might decide to add some things from Rebels, but the timelines likely wont match up as this takes place a few years before.

The Little Man

.o.o.o.o.o

With the desert suns settling over the horizon and the stifling blackness descending upon the world, the two farmers bid their mysterious guest farewell as he once again climbed the ramp of the Nubian yacht. Beneath his cowl, the stranger spared the farmers a final glance of... something. Sorrow or pity maybe. The grave tones in which he's spoken and his agonized expression all throughout the explanation made it seem as if he were burdened with the weight of the entire galaxy.

Yes, one would think the galaxy was in shambles and only the righteous Obi-wan Kenobi knew the secret of making it whole again. Hell, maybe he did. Maybe it was all the truth, far-fetched as it was.

 _Arrogant bastard_ , Owen mused, _The galaxy didn't turn only for the Jedi. How can you come here and expect us to care what's happening up in the stars? The Jedi never put food upon my table, never harvested with me at the close of the season, never kept the raiders away from the collection tanks._

He looked to his wife. In one arm she held the baby, the child they'd been assured was the son of Anakin Skywalker. The other hand was pressed to her mouth in grief and horror, emotions Owen himself had refused to let take hold. As the buyers in Anchorhead often complained, he was nothing if not a skeptic, and Kenobi had spun a grand tale.

 _Blood is thicker than water,_ his father had always said. Owen would help raise this child, but not as a favor to some self-important Jedi. No, he would do it for the love he still bore Shmi Skywalker. Owen was not able to save her from the Tuskens, but by the suns he could provide a roof for her grandchild.

"Let's get inside, Beru." Owen said gently to his wife. She had not moved since the infant had been placed in her arms. She stood and stared at the spot of sand where the shuttle had lifted off.

"What are we going to do, Owen?" she whispered, utterly overwhelmed, possibly fearing for her own life and now that of their new charge.

"We are gonna go inside, Beru," he told her, rougher this time, as it were the most obvious thing. He could say nothing else.

.o.o.o.o.o.

The first few years were spent establishing this new "family" of theirs. Beru suggested they pretend the boy was their own. A surprise. An accident. Owen refused, not on the basis that they couldn't pass off the child as their own offspring, but because of the small fact that someone out there might just come looking for him. Despite all that Kenobi had said about the metaphorical "death" of Anakin Skywalker, the boy was no orphan. He had a father, regardless of whether or not the dregs of the Jedi wished to acknowledge it. Owen was determined not to discard this fact.

They boy grew quickly, and no sooner than his first words and first steps, did funny things begin to happen in his presence. Tantrums that cracked plates, items flinging themselves off the shelf, doors cycling open with the release untouched.

The kid had that Jedi blood, Owen supposed. He kept an eye on him like a womp rat near the power lines, treated him like one too. Owen had no love to spare for the child. He was a duty. Another tax to pay, forcing him and Beru back into the well of poverty they had only just climbed from. Tattooine was unforgiving like that. Owen was unwilling to open his mind to any sort of attachment, any sort of familiarity with the child. Better to maintain that cold indifference on the off-chance that he'd have to hand the kid over at blasterpoint. He could plead that he'd only done it under duress, because Sith be damned if he was expected to hold this child's life more important than his wife's and their farmstead. Generations of Lars had lived and died here, and Owen had no plans to disrupt the tradition.

And mind shut tight to any sentimentality, Owen was blind to what a Jedi's kid might just gain him.

It was the night of the most catastrophic raid since the one that took away his sweet and gentle step-mother. His property, like all the properties this side of the ridge were terribly vulnerable to threats from the Dune Sea, sandstorms and Tuskens alike. But the small valley just before the rise of the Jungland Wastes created a trap for the denser, cooler fronts that moved through, and it was no coincidence that Owen and his scant neighbors regularly collected larger harvests than those that lived nearer to Anchorhead or Mos Eisley.

 _If they don't raid, then the land don't pay,_ Kettle Lars, the farmstead's founder, had reportedly stated after purchasing the property and several slaves from the previous owner whom had tired of fending off the constant attacks.

This particular raid began at the second twilight, as they most often did. Still under the light of the second sun, the night security systems had yet to toggle on, but any droids or laborers were already safely tucked away inside.

Luke, still a small child, walking but yet incapable of coherent speech, had been agitated since dinner. Twice, Beru had lost track of him and found him in the garage. When they settled down for the night, the boy began to cry. It wasn't a whine for attention, rather it was frantic and frightened. The child was not given to crying, was more likely to get up and attempt to find what he wanted himself, and this puzzled both him and his wife. Beru was unable to soothe the boy and for a long while husband and wife lay side by side in their bed, listening to the yowling child in the next room.

Owen rose from the mattress, figuring that if he was unable to sleep then he could at least go repair the landspeeder's left thruster whilst the boy cried himself hoarse.

His tools were already scattered about the garage from where he'd given up earlier. Walking over to where he'd left the hydrospanner, he reached down to pick it up when he realized something wasn't right. The room was not as it ought to be, somehow too dark. Straightening, he looked over his shoulder to a darkened monitor that usually displayed a live feed of the vaporators upon the farmstead's perimeter. It was not off, only across the screen were the bold words: SIGNAL LOST.

Very strange. There seemed to be no damage to the wires coming into the console, and even if one camera had malfunctioned, the screen would continue to show the feed from the others. A glitch in the system, then? Upon running a diagnostic, Owen felt his face darken. The video lines had been severed and the system compromised. It could not be an accident. Working quickly, Owen booted up the auxiliary system and changed the input on the monitor to display feed from the backup cameras.

His body went cold when the silhouetted image of a Tusken sauntered across the focus of the lens. Other shapes shifted behind him, indicating that this was no curious wanderer out on his own. Owen swallowed, numb in that moment, but already knowing what it was he must do. When he found his legs once again, he fled the room and barreled into the courtyard pit to enter the tunnel that would take him to the power generator. He slammed his palm upon the alarm as he darted beyond the entrance. The klaxon was jarring, but Beru would hear it from the bedroom and immediately reach for her blaster riffle.

It was impossible to tell how far in the Tuskens had intruded, but in those numbers it would be difficult to fight them off with just himself and his wife. He would have to activate the failsafe, wherein the vaporators could be used as conduits to channel a powerful energy web between them. Any Tuskens within would be trapped and their bodies fried. Any outside would be repelled. By doing this, however, Owen would have to overload his own vaporators, and put them out of working condition for a week at least. As well, the massive amount of energy that the failsafe required would ensure the farmstead was without power for several days.

He would lose valuable collection time, but it was better than having his home overrun with Tuskens.

Overrides inputted, Owen stepped back and listened to the fizzy hum growing in pitch as would-be raiders met their doom.

The doors hissed open and Beru stepped into the room, little Luke upon one hip and her riffle in her hand. The boy was silent now. Awake, but no longer crying. Owen realized that he owed this child a debt, for what might have happened if he'd have gone to bed like any other night? He went to his wife and wrapped her in an embrace, enfolding the child along with her. He would never say it out loud, but an incident like this reminded him just how easy it would be to lose her. How easy it would be for his loyal, soft-spoken wife to suffer the same fate as Shmi Skywalker. They were so very alone out here, in the middle of nothing, surrounded by hostiles and the terrible heat of the suns and the sandblasting winds.

"It's over, Owen," Beru said soothingly when he held her for a long while. In the morning. the neighbors would come with food and a spare generator. Perhaps if the day was cool enough they would stay to help repair the damage, just as Owen had often done for them. The cycle was relentless.

"It's never over," he whispered against her neck.

.o.o.o.o.o.

The years slipped by and Owen had held onto a bizarre hope that the boy's father, or Kenobi would come back to claim him. It was not a desire to be rid of the child, rather, it was a desire not to fill a role in the boy's life when by all rights that duty belonged to another. It was a desire to not become attached to something that was not his own.

Though as time passed and no one came, Owen slowly felt himself slipping into that gap that had been left in the boy's life.

The questions came when Luke was old enough to realize that his aunt and uncle were not his parents. After a heated argument between Owen and Beru, they agreed to create a lie to feed the child. Owen's brother, Anakin had been a navigator on a spice freighter, he'd met his wife on Naboo, where they married. She died in childbirth. End of story, no embellishments.

"I don't like this, Beru. It doesn't feel right," Owen had said after they'd told the lie that first time. "A boy shouldn't grow up knowing only falsehoods about his father."

"It is for his own protection, Owen. You heard what Kenobi said. He..." she hesitated.

 _Anakin_ , Owen wished to supply.

"...Vader killed his own wife. That pretty Nubian girl."

 _I don't buy it. Not for one second._ Owen refused to accept it in his mind. Skywalker had seemed a good kid during that singular, short visit just before the Clone Wars had broken out. Owen recalled when he'd first formed that opinion. They'd all been seated around the table, himself, Beru, Cliegg, the Nubian woman, and Skywalker.

" _Where are you going?"_ Owen had asked when the boy stood suddenly.

" _To find my mother,"_ he'd answered sullenly, leaving the rest of them in awe. Had not Cliegg just recounted the story of how a party of thirty did not manage to keep their lives in a rescue attempt? Skywalker was one kid, what could he do out there alone?

But by the stars, he'd been serious, and when he'd returned with the body, Owen could not help feeling impressed by his duracrete resolve.

He'd been a bit prickly toward all of them, arrogant at times, but Owen had seen past all of it. He was a kid grieving for his mother, placing the blame partly upon Cliegg and his family for not ensuring her safety, and they'd all failed her, there was no doubt in that.

But the boy had also been jealous. Jealous of their family that he realized he was not part of. Nostalgic for his home, and angry at himself somewhere deep down for leaving it all behind.

Nonetheless, he'd had his heart in the right place. It was evident that he'd cared deeply for his mother. Also, he'd repaired the sensors on the third vaproator on the south ridge for no other reason than family. Any guy like that was alright in Owen's books. To backpedal on all his own conclusions would mean having to admit that he was no good at judging character. And Owen knew he'd always been a good judge of people.

That Kenobi Jedi had seemed a man of more complex thought. A politician in his core, with a life forged of sacrifices and compromises. A man like that was good at deluding himself, capable of making himself feel as if he fought for a noble cause long after it had stopped being noble. A man like that could spin a truth on its head whilst it still remained a truth.

It wasn't that such men were untrustworthy, only that you couldn't always take their words at face value. So it might be true that the Nubian girl was dead, maybe she was murdered, and maybe it had to do with her husband, but it couldn't possibly be the whole story. It was like being told to get in a speeder and being assured it would drive, even though you held the ignition coil in your hand.

Luke was in the next room, sitting on the rug below the dinner table and pushing around one of his toys, a model T-16 Skyhopper that Owen had purchased in Anchorhead. Fully engrossed in his own, imaginative world, the boy made small zooming noises as he forced the toy into tight turns limited only by the bending of his wrist.

Owen watched him and wondered what has possessed him to buy a toy Skyhopper. If he'd been smart he would have bought a toy water hauler or a hydraulic drill. Rather than filling the boy's head with a desire for shooting and aerial dogfights he should demonstrate the joys of working on the farm, such as using a rover to haul gravel and drainage hardware to distant vaporators.

He sighed to himself, already knowing that the poor kid would never take to farming, but that it would be his job to force him into it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

.o.o.o.o.o.

The kid was eight standard years when the rains came. To a moisture farmer, rain was the sand devil incarnate, destroying equipment, playing hell with the sensors, and worst of all driving down the price of water.

It became the hardest season Owen ever had to endure. They were forced to sell important machinery and squander their meager savings just to eat. Food and water had to be rationed, and Luke grew thin and sickly as a result. Owen began to consider things he'd never considered before, such as asking the Hutts for a loan, or selling the property to Huff Darklighter, who'd always had his greedy eye on it.

In the end, Owen made the hard decision to spend that season's dry months working as a mechanic in Mos Eisley while Beru and Luke remained at the farm. A Rodian friend named Creesta had secured the job for him, and he'd even let Owen rent the small apartment above his cantina in exchange for doing maintenance on his service droids.

Only a spaceport city could connect a man with the galaxy once again. Anchorhead was isolated in its own little bubble, with everything outside it just rumor and hearsay. In Mos Eisley, rumor became reality, forced a man to see the spacecraft coming and going and to realize that there was a whole galaxy out there and he couldn't pretend otherwise.

Owen set down his glass of Corellian brandy, noting how it had gotten late and the patrons of the Tipsy Jawa were fewer. The ones left were drunk and rowdy, especially the trio of off-duty stormtroopers from the Imperial garrison. Brash and challenging, they spoke loudly and offensively, looking for any excuse to draw their blasters. Owen pitied them. Surely it was a sad existence to have enlisted in the Imperial Army, expecting to see action and adventure, only to end up here on Tatooine acting as the law upon a lawless planet. Like trying to put a leash on a krayt dragon.

They knew how useless and unwelcome they were on Tatooine. It was why they felt the need to act like this. Tattooine was a Hutt controlled system, no matter the time and era. In the Clone Wars it had remained a neutral system, partly out of the Republic's disinterest in it, and partly due to the double-dealing Hutts profiting off of playing two sides against one another. It remained to be said, however, that political leanings of the populace were decidedly Separatist. The core and mid worlds of the glorious Republic-now-Empire and their opulent lifestyles were but fantasy to the dirt and grime that existed out in the rim.

 _We're just trash to them, Bantha poodoo upon the bottom of their polished boot. Do you see any of their puppet Jedi here, dealing with all this crime and violence? Nah, and you wont, regardless if we are represented in their senate or not. That Dooku fella, though. He's got the right ideas._

It had been a drunken man in a cantina several years ago who'd spoken those words. At the time, Owen had thought little of them, ever unconcerned with galactic politics, as they so rarely had an effect upon his little world. Funny that they'd remained in his mind so long. Maybe he agreed with them on some level.

It wouldn't have been appropriate to agree with them at the time. Not when he had a Jedi as a step-brother. A step-brother that no one had ever heard from up until that one, terribly sad visit where his step-mother's body had been recovered and laid to rest. A step-brother that most in Anchorhead didn't seem to think even existed, and until Owen had met the boy in person, he'd had his doubts same as the rest.

" _The slave girl wife says she has a Jedi son."_

" _The poor dear has spent too long in the heat."_

" _And perhaps Cliegg has too, for marrying one of his slaves. What a scandal. Has he no shame?"_

Oh but he existed, Owen knew, because his name was immortalized as the youngest, and only human winner of the Boonta Eve Classic. Watto, when Owen dared to visit the Toydarian in Mos Espa for a custom part, never missed an opportunity to boast of the slave he'd once owned. Whether or not the kid had become a Jedi was the part that Owen had been skeptical of.

Creesta did not pay the stormtroopers in his cantina much attention aside from pouring their drinks. He instead remained at Owen's end of the bar, occasionally wiping up imaginary spills.

"So you married that cutie from Anchorhead did you?" Creesta was asking him.

"Beru Whitesun, yeah," Owen said, swirling his drink. His mind was elsewhere, somewhere on the farm, where now he might be comfortably in bed with Beru beside him.

"And now you got a kid."

"No. We tried for a bit. Don't think its in the cards for me." Maybe they'd have tried again tonight? Even though they both knew by this point that it was hopeless. Beru had never seemed to think it was a problem, and he'd loved her even more for that. When Luke came, she'd liked to claim that he was all she ever needed.

"But Reeku says you've got a kid living with you."

"He's my nephew."

"Hows that? You have no siblings."

"I have a step-brother," Owen said absently, noting how the brandy was starting to fog his mind.

"The slave girl's son?" Creesta snickered, "The Jed-" Owen lashed his hand out and clamped it around the Rodian's muzzle, catching him with his tongue hanging. He had knocked over his glass in the process, making a real spill that Creesta would have to wipe. The glass rolled off the bar and shattered upon the ground, creating a noise that drew the entire cantina's attention to the two of them.

Creesta seemed to have realized what he'd almost done. His eyes darted over to the stormtroopers when Owen released him, but it seemed the troopers were only as interested as the other patrons were, and once they realized that no fight was about to break out, they went back to their posturing.

"Sorry," Creesta said once the noise around them was healthy again. "It's so easy to forget, ya know?"

"Try harder. You're a good friend, Creesta, but I'm not undergoing any interrogations because of you," Owen replied as he ran his hand through his hair and sighing at the narrow escape. The Rodian was looking grave now. When he spoke again, it was hushed.

"It was all true, then?"

"My step-brother was a navigator on a spice freighter. That's all you need to know about him."

"So he's dead?"

"I don't know," Owen answered truthfully, "Maybe I'll find out someday." Creesta did not look hopeful.

"They're all supposed to be dead, and though I'd like to say good-riddance, I hear rumors about the Purge, how they were all stabbed in the backs by their own men, how even the little kids were killed, slaughtered by that Darth Vader," Creesta said in a near whisper, "Proves that you can't trust anyone with them strange powers."

"Hey barkeep!" a trooper hollered down from his end of the counter, "Another round. And I think we've seen enough podracing. Switch the holo over to an Imperial channel." Creesta threw down his rag in irritation before picking up the remote. The two racers on the display became two Imperial news anchors. The Rodian turned his back on it and went to the tap.

"-representative of the Molavar System has agreed to allow a military presence upon his planet to quell the rising insurgency. Molavar and its governing body will be placed under martial law until the conflict is resolved," the woman anchor on screen was saying. "The Emperor's Enforcer, the Lord Darth Vader has been tasked with overseeing the system's transition-"

Owen kept his eyes on the footage as it cut to a man- at least it was probably a man- in a full body suit, complete with a menacing black mask and a long cape that fluttered behind him. The panel upon the chest indicated that the suit was pressurized and that it contained a respirator. Kenobi had hinted that Skywalker was no longer human, but Owen hadn't realized that he'd meant it physically.

The footage changed again, this time showing that same masked figure standing beside the hooded Emperor as the frail, old man somehow managed to give a booming speech. At the farmstead, the holo reception was sporadic and unreliable, making it a chore to even turn it on. While visiting town, Owen rarely had time to sit and watch things like this. Because of that, he'd never realized how... important... Darth Vader was to the Empire.

As if eager to affirm this, the footage changed again to show the suited man disembarking a shuttle while an entire hanger of troops stood at attention as an honor guard. Owen watched in fascination, for though he'd known that fully trained Jedi often took up command positions within the military, it seemed that Darth Vader had become something far greater than just a cog in a machine. A man that had once been a slave now bent his knee only to one other in the entire galaxy.

"You, in the Mandalorian helmet. Who do you think you are, Death Watch?"

Owen saw that another man had come to sit in the vacant area between himself and the troopers. He wore a distinctive helmet over his head, with the eye and mouth slits forming a "T" where they met at the center. Creesta had pointed him out the other night, saying that he was a bounty hunter that often used one of the cantina's back rooms to meet clients.

Upon receiving the insult, the hunter straightened in his seat. Turning slowly to the Imperials, as if he could not comprehend their stupidity, he fixed them under his gaze.

"Death Watch could not have afforded me," the man said slowly and Owen watched his right hand move down to his blaster.

"Don't," Owen growled and it was low enough that it wouldn't have carried beyond the bounty hunter. And to Owen's immense surprise, the man paused. "If you can't handle their talk, then leave so that the rest of us can enjoy our drinks." He didn't know what possessed him to say it. For stars' sake the hunter had a blaster and Owen was unarmed. Maybe it was because Owen had the feeling that the man might not stop with the deaths of the troopers if he got started. Maybe it was a lazy desire to keep the peace. Maybe, subconsciously, it was a death wish. The helmeted man seemed to stare at him from under that mask, maybe intrigued, maybe annoyed. He then flipped a few credits onto the bar next to his unfinished drink and stood.

"This farmer here has agreed to buy your next round, soldier. He must find some amusement in your drunken slurring."

Bastard, Owen cussed inwardly. As the bounty hunter left, Owen found that the attention he had tried so hard to deflect was suddenly trained on him.

"You find us amusing, farmer?"

"Not particularly, but you are keeping this air clear of spice tonight. I figured it bears appreciating." Owen said, attempting to looked disinterested as he decided to run with the ruse. He'd just done them a favor hadn't he? "You should try the Geonosian gin if you haven't already."

It was quite remarkable, the changes that happened beyond that. Yet, Owen knew their game from the moment they walked in, possibly even better than they knew it themselves. They'd come to have a good time, hadn't they? But they'd found themselves outcasted and threatened. A drop of sympathy was all it took to get the engines back in harmony. A single, friendly fellow.

"Lars, you ol' devil," MX-2911 "Max" snorted into his beer as Owen finished the story of how he'd intended to fool Beru into going on a date with him, only it had backfired and it had been her mother responding to his messages all along. Private Shurn clapped him on the back while letting out a bawdy laugh. Private Capel watched in fascination as Owen dissembled his blaster upon the bar counter and demonstrated how to better protect the charges from decay. It was several hours past when Owen normally left, but as he found himself more intoxicated, the bar stool became more comfortable than a lonely night upstairs.

Owen was not the only one to share stories. Most interesting were the clone trooper Max's.

"I was part of one of the final batches of Kamino clones. The last group to receive full training before the facility was decommissioned. I served briefly in the 501st just before the end of the war."

"501st?" exclaimed Shurn, the youngest trooper, "but that is Vader's personal battalion!"

"Yeah well, while it was still part of the GAR it was under the command of a Jedi named Anakin Skywalker. When the Empire came about, there was a massive shuffling of the ranks. I didn't make the cut and was shipped out to the rim. Most of the clones were."

"Skywalker, the 'Hero With no Fear'," Capel- also young, but far more intelligent and arrogant- said quietly in his thick, Coruscanti accent. "I was just a child, but I still remember the holoposters."

"Did you ever meet him?" Owen asked Max casually. Underneath it all, he was holding his breath. Here was another chance to piece together more of the puzzle. It was for Luke, Owen told himself, on the off chance that he would be able to tell the child everything about his father someday... and maybe Owen was the slightest bit curious as well.

"Vader?" the clone looked horrified at the thought.

"Skywalker," Owen clarified. Max visibly relaxed. Shurn did not.

"What does it matter? He was a Jedi. We could get court-martialed for even thinking about those traitors," Shurn stated. Capel gave a pointed glance around the empty cantina, as if to say "Well we are alone in a bar, upon a mostly forgotten planet, all the way in the far reaches of the outer rim."

"Why do you want to know?" the clone said to Owen, appraising him with new eyes, perhaps remembering that he'd only known the farmer for a few short hours. Owen shrugged, seeing that he'd dug himself a hole.

"He was famous on Tatooine before he was a Jedi. Won an important podrace as a kid."

"Ugh. Podracing. Such an uncivilized sport," Capel drawled, "And these rim worlders follow it like a religion."

"I met him twice," Max admitted, "He was the type of commander that fought alongside his troops in the first wave. Everything he ever said was inspiring. He made you feel... like you weren't even a soldier following orders. He made you feel like it was all exactly what you wanted to fight for. He..." the clone hesitated, "was the kind of Jedi that makes a clone ashamed of Order 66."

Shurn stood from his seat, completely sobered.

"You've had enough tonight, Max. Come on."

Owen bid the three troopers farewell a short time later and then assisted Creesta in mopping up the place.

"Looks like you made yourself a few buddies, though I guess it never hurts to have a few Imps on your side for when your about to be put in a holding cell," Creesta muttered as he flipped on the laser sensors and coded the door to lock.

"Too true, my friend. Too true."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The stint in Mos Eisley ensured that Owen and his family were back on their feet again by the next year, but in quick succession another blow was dealt.

It arrived at the farm in the form of the monthly news datapages. Owen had subscribed to the Imperial leaning, _Arkanis Watcher_ and the CIS/rebel leaning _Mos Eisley Journal_. He'd told Beru it was simply to stay informed, but in truth, Owen wished to hear more about the actions of Darth Vader. The datapages had to be delivered, as the farm had no long-range communications, and they could only be delivered on a monthly basis, since the delivery pilots could not be bothered to "trek all the way out to the Dune Sea for a single customer."

The _Watcher_ lauded him as a hero, a strong, silent protector of the realm with uncounted military successes and an iron resolve to rid the galaxy of all types of filth, pirates and rebels alike. The _Journal_ was not so star-struck. Though it seemed they could not outright condemn the actions of the current regime and its primary enforcer for fear of being shut down, they still managed to keep up a steady stream of critique. Scornful articles highlighted some of Vader's more brutal tactics in battle, how he would go to any lengths necessary to secure his objectives, and the 'deplorable' treatment of his own officers. However, neither publication seemed able to provide a more intimate view of the man and his private life. He seemed to them a machine rather than a man.

This day, when the delivery came, the title blaring across the first page of the _Watcher_ was all Owen needed to see for his body to go numb and it had little to do with Darth Vader.

 _Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Traitor, Taken into Custody Near Alderaan._

And the _Journal's_ :

 _General Kenobi, War Hero and Jedi Master Sentenced Without Trial._ Below was a photo of the man being dragged along in wrist and ankle binders. His head was hung, but blood was visible upon his bruised and swollen face.

Rage overtook Owen as he tossed down the datapages. Just what in the sand hells had been so important on Alderaan? He'd have had better luck hiding in the desert out here. They were alone now. Truly alone. Kenobi had assured them he would return. Return to do what, Owen had never been certain. Perhaps he'd meant to make Luke into some all-powerful Jedi capable of bringing the Empire to its knees. Perhaps he'd only wanted to visit here and there, and let them all live out their lives simple and happy.

So much for that.

When he showed the pages to Beru, she sat still and quiet at the table with a mug of steaming cafe in front of her. Slowly, she reached up to rub her tired eyes and only left her hand there.

"What's going on?" Luke asked as he bounced into the kitchen, sand in his hair and a discball under his arm. Owen snatched the two datareaders before the child could take them.

"The Hutts raised the tax again. Go play in the yard."

The boy shrugged and trotted back toward the courtyard, completely oblivious to what he'd lost.

But the trouble did not end there. Within a standard month, a new message arrived at the farm, hand-delivered by a courier in a crisp uniform that was not Imperial in the slightest, but still spoke of exuberant wealth.

 _Owen and Beru Lars,_

 _Greetings friends. You do not know me, and any contact prior to this would have been unnecessary and dangerous, yet in the wake of the loss of our mutual acquaintance, I feel a meeting is now in order. During this next standard week I shall be guesting at the Desert Thorn hotel in Mos Espa. Enclosed with this message you will find travel funds. All other details are best relaid in person and I shall be anticipating your arrival most eagerly._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Bail Organa, First Chairman and Viceroy of Alderaan_

Owen stared at the text dumbly for a long while, still standing in the door of his home even though the courier had been gone for quite some time. It could be no coincidence that the Viceroy of Alderaan wanted to meet with him. This had something to do with Kenobi, Owen was sure of it.

He walked back into the shade of the dome, eyes moving around his modest abode. What in the galaxy had he gotten himself involved in by agreeing to care for this damn kid? He was a force-forsaken moisture farmer! He couldn't have Jedi landing on his property in yachts and Viceroys summoning him to lunch meetings. What had his world become? He didn't have _time_ for any of this bantha shit.

It wasn't his sandbox to be messing around in, but no longer could he ignore these things and hope they would go away.

"Beru!" he called down to his wife, "Where in the galaxy are you storing all my nice tunics? I need one without oil stains."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Owen had always found Mos Espa to be uncomfortably vast and sprawling, with spacecraft engines roaring overhead at all hours of the night and day. Though in economic decline since the end of the Clone Wars, the city was still the wealthiest upon the planet. Many of its residents lived in the sort of luxury that didn't belong so far from the center of the galaxy. It was a place where core-worlders could gather together and play make believe about living the harsh life of a rim-worlder, and where Hutt clan leaders could slither out onto their balconies and drink in the sight of their filthy domains below.

The public transport had made its stop nearer to the city's outskirts, forcing Owen to walk through the Slave Quarter in order to reach the well-to-do downtown area. Slave auctions were ongoing during the morning light of the suns and Owen attempted to keep his eyes averted from the defeated faces of the merchandise, lest he fall victim to a sorrowful look... as his father once had.

Shmi Skywalker had been just a face in this crowd many years ago. A life without her would have saved Owen from all his current troubles, true. But a life without her would have been a life without inner warmth and happiness. It would have been a life with a lonely father, an empty farmstead. A life without mushroom stew, without a pit garden, without quiet, healing words that had gradually put an end to Cliegg drinking himself stupid and Owen's spice deals in Mos Eisley.

The traffic in the streets steadily became more congested. The buildings became grander and taller so that Owen would have to shield his eyes from the suns to view the tops of them. People meandering down the walkways became decidedly more huminoid, and infinitely less odorous. Sand-dusted wraps became handsome, tailored robes, work boots became silk slippers. Moonshine in back alleys became glasses of fine wine upon restaurant terraces.

The Desert Thorn had once been a Hutt owned brothel, but since had been restyled as an opulent hotel capable of hosting off-planet royalty and dignitaries. It surely saw far less use under its new purpose, and Owen could only cluck his tongue at the thought of the money lost. Nevertheless, as soon as he'd entered, he felt horribly out of place and smoothed back his sweat-slicked hair with one hand while the other dusted off his tunic in a self-conscious manner.

It was ridiculous. He had nothing to prove to these people. He was no less than them. With a scowl his hands fell back to his sides. Uniformed security personnel were moving to intercept him, likely for no other reason than his shabby garments.

 _You're outta your depth, Lars,_ he reminded himself.

"Owen Lars?" a cleanly dressed aide spoke, having beaten the guards to him. "You are expected." And having no idea how he was supposed to respond, Owen only nodded and fell into step behind his momentary savior.

They waited for the lift briefly in the lobby and Owen discreetly took in the other richly attired guests meandering about; a Weequay man with several, Twi'lek females, two Hutts surrounded by a fawning entourage, and a group of winged Geonosians clicking in their native tongue. The nearest lift reached the ground level with a soft ding and the doors slid open to allow the passengers to disembark. In the wake of the bejeweled humans, another figure in scuffed, Mandalorian armor shuffled out behind, thumbs hooked casually in his belt.

The encounter was equally unexpected on both ends. Owen did not need to look beyond the faceplate to see that this was the same man, the bounty hunter, from the Tipsy Jawa. Rather akin to a recognition of one's own among a foreign crowd, they momentarily sized one another up as if to say:

 _You don't belong here._

The lift doors shut and Owen forced his mind to think on the meeting still to take place. Bounty Hunters did business not just with the criminal underworld, but with the legally wealthy and hopelessly corrupt as well. And Owen was not so self-absorbed to think that the armored man would take any interest in the life of a moisture farmer simply because of a coincidental crossing of paths.

He was led to a suite somewhere up in the canopy of the hotel. Glimpses from the skywalk led Owen to believe they were some fifty stories above ground level. He kept his gaze ahead of him rather than on the posh surroundings. Why belabor luxury he would likely never see again?

"Mr. Lars," it was a quiet, regal man that spoke once Owen was left alone within a dark and polished office. The man approached with his hand extended, floor length, slate robes falling about him after he'd stood. Soft lines were upon his conventionally handsome face, but his age was surely not too far from Owen's own, and that took him by surprise. For some reason, he'd not pictured a man in his thirties as Alderaan's de facto ruler.

"Viceroy," Owen acknowledged as he took the offered hand.

That sense of inadequacy stole over him briefly for the second time. While some men commanded armies and sat in thrones, others, like Owen, had been perfectly content to toil away in the sands and never expect anything greater of their lives.

"Please have a seat. I was beginning to think you wouldn't come," the man began, with a gesture toward an empty armchair.

"It crossed my mind," Owen replied absently as he sat. Indeed, Owen had waited until the very last day that Organa had mentioned he'd be on-planet with the half hope that the Viceroy would have decided to board his shuttle back to Alderaan a day early.

"You must forgive me for summoning you in this manner. The Empire keeps close tabs on me and all my movements. I could not deviate from my itinerary, even while out here, without them becoming suspicious," Organa explained.

"Then why meet with me at all?" Owen wondered aloud, a small spike of dread embedding itself in his stomach. Had he made a mistake in coming here after all?

Organa began again, this time hesitant. "I understand that Anakin Skywalker was... family to you?" The simple use of the word 'was' was enough to irk Owen. It seemed already that this man would emulate all that Kenobi had spoken. Skywalker was alive and _remained_ family, no matter his deeds, for Owen could not simply disregard that crucial, legal tie that bound them.

But Owen did not immediately open his mouth to reply with this. He gazed flatly at the Viceroy, waiting for the man to continue. He would not divulge sensitive information to a man that he did not trust.

"I... have been a friend of the Jedi since the days of the Republic. Master Kenobi was a colleague, as well as Anakin Skywalker. I knew Padme since she was a child queen upon Naboo. I was there as she died and the decision was made to send her son to Tatooine, to his father's family," Organa admitted after a moment of silence.

 _A decision you helped make perhaps? A decision that was never really yours or Kenobi's to make?_ Owen couldn't stop the acerbic thought, though he had the sense to keep it to himself.

"Aye, the Skywalkers are family. Have been that since Shmi Skywalker married Cliegg Lars nearly twenty years ago," Owen finally grunted. "Let's not smoke the womp rat nest. What can I do for you, Viceroy?"

"I did not mean to pry. I only wish to understand Kenobi's reasoning when he brought the child here. You must forgive me for saying it, but I do not believe the boy to have adequate protection upon this underdeveloped world and in a farmer's care. There is too much at stake. Those of us who know of Luke's birth believe he may be the last hope for the galaxy, the very future of the Jedi."

Owen let out an amused snort. The kid was smart, but he was no god, no savior. What kind of heartless men would put that upon a child's shoulders in the first place? And even more troubling was the implication that there was some greater plan in the works for Luke, that he needed to be kept safe for a reason. He was a kid, and he deserved the chance to be just that.

"You think you can protect him better than me? You did such a great job protecting Kenobi, after all." It was a low blow that Owen regretted almost immediately after the words had passed his lips. The man had been nothing but passive and cordial, but for some reason the thought of giving up Luke to another was deeply disturbing.

"A mistake was made," Organa conceded, "Kenobi should have spent his exile in a more remote location, one where he would not have been so easily recognized, but of course he took his own risks. The protection I can offer the boy, and perhaps you and your wife as well, will be more substantial than simply a new place to hide." The man intertwined his fingers atop his desk and Owen watched them clench, and indicator that his next words would contain something dangerous to divulge. But then Owen knew so many dangerous things already, what was one more?

"There are factions within the Empire that would see the Republic restored and the Emperor de-throned. For the better part of a decade, myself and many highly placed friends of mine have worked tirelessly to bring together these dissidents and unite them under a single banner. We are nearly ready to move out into the open. I could offer you a place within this rebellion, and you and Luke could enjoy the protection of an organized military force with the resources of many rim and former separatist systems. Luke could openly be trained as a Jedi, as he was always destined."

Owen was quiet for a bit, staring down at the whorls in the wood of the desk. The revelation had caused his heart to quicken its beating. Part of him was already tempted by the offer, part of him was horrified that he'd already been drawn into an insurrection without even knowing, simply by agreeing to take in one boy.

"The datapages always marked you as a pacifist," the farmer commented, a note of dull accusation in his voice. Owen had done a bit of homework before coming here, unwilling to walk into the situation blind. Bail Organa- voice of the people. The underdog's representative. His campaign slogans had usually referred to ending whatever violence had been erupting at the time. This revelation of a new war was nearly a betrayal in itself.

"I suppose that was accurate in the days of the Republic," Organa had the good grace to appear almost ashamed, "But I have found a cause worthy of picking up arms for, as well as something worth dying for," the sparkle of adoration in his expression suggested that it was a person Organa considered dying for. His kid maybe? Did he have one? Owen thought he remembered reading that he had a daughter.

"Guess everyone has their price," Owen remarked, half in disgust but then half, as well, in understanding.

"I'd be most curious to discover what yours is, Mr. Lars," Organa spoke, shaking off solemnity and becoming eager.

"I won't allow myself, my wife, or my nephew to get caught up in another man's war," Owen said stubbornly. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and tilted back in his seat.

"It is your war, for your rights and your freedom," Organa insisted. "The Empire holds this galaxy in shackles and it is time to cast them off." Owen smiled wryly to himself at this. Wars were not a game the everyman ought to indulge in. Wars were for wealthy idealists like Organa, who spent their leisure convincing themselves that they could provide a better way of life for the less fortunate, if only the regime could be toppled and a new structure put in place.

But who would ultimately give their life in sacrifice to that war? Usually never men like Organa. Men like Owen, certainly. A heavy price for what would ultimately only result in a small increase in working wage, a slightly more tolerant governing body, or a relaxing of token rules and regulations.

"Well then I don't want it. My rights and freedom are fine. They don't change no matter who's in charge, be it the Hutts, the Confederacy, or the Empire," Owen said with conviction. "Luke was given over into my care, and even if I can't keep him from his destiny, I can sure as hell make certain his childhood isn't filled with firefights and death."

"War may come to your doorstep whether you wish it to or not," Organa said gently, and Owen thought it was surely a metaphor for something else coming to his doorstep.

The farmer sighed and placed his palms upon the dark wood of the desk. He would have to reassure this man that he was up to the task of providing for and protecting his family, and it was near insulting to have to do so.

"It's true I don't have a fortress of a palace, nor a phalanx of security guards, nor an army, nor anything else that comes with those things. Yet I'm not quite as helpless as I appear, Viceroy." It was Owen's turn to divulge something that should not be said aloud, but then he supposed it was only fair after Organa had admitted to outright treason. It seemed Kenobi was fond of keeping all his friends in the dark, for he'd obviously not managed to explain to Organa the true reason Owen was in a good position to protect Luke.

"You are familiar with the slave trade here on Tatooine, aren't you?" If the Alderaanian was surprised at the seemingly abrupt change in topic, then he did not show it, so Owen plowed on. "Each slave is implanted with a piece of Zygerrian tech, a small subdermal chip that contains a tracking device. The chip is also capable of a self destruct sequence designed to terminate the host, should a slave owner feel so inclined. When my father, Cliegg Lars, purchased Shmi Skywalker, intending to free her, he discovered that her son had never officially been taken off the slave roster. This was surely due to his freedom being won illegally in a pod race gamble. Cliegg managed to obtain the boy's chip ID and accompanying codes in addition to the boy's mother's. I think he was hoping to free Shmi's son properly, maybe as a gift to her, but both Cliegg and Shmi died before this was ever accomplished." Owen shook his head to clear the thought of their deaths away. "Nevertheless, those codes remain within the family. Legally, a case could be made that Anakin Skywalker is Lars' property."

Organa's deepset eyes had opened wider, the only indication of his surprise. Surely the idea of slavery did not sit well with this overly righteous man, but Owen could see his mind working, trying to comprehend the notion of Darth Vader as a slave and how he could use it to his own advantage.

"He could have had the chip removed," Organa said eventually.

"It's possible," Owen agreed with a small shrug, "but it requires a specialist procedure and knowledge of one's own ID codes in order to avoid triggering the self destruct. And taking into consideration the fact that the chip only transmits within Tatooinian atmosphere, as well as the fact that the man in question is likely far too prideful to reveal to others that he was ever a slave, I think it more likely that he simply never bothered with it." Organa seemed to contemplate, but then nodded gravely in understanding.

"If he were to ever pay this planet a visit, he would be walking into a trap."

Owen reached into his tunic and unpocketed the small, remote detonator, something that he'd been carrying on his person and sleeping with under his pillow nearly since the day Luke had been dropped into Beru's arms. He set it upon the desk surface between himself and the Alderaanian.

"If Darth Vader ever comes knocking on my door, I'll damn well be ready. Don't be doubting that, Viceroy."

There was little to be said beyond that, and a short time later, Owen was excusing himself from the elegant room. When he reached the double doors, the same aide stood waiting outside them, ready to act as an escort. All down the corridors and in the lifts, Owen stewed over that peculiar meeting, wondering if he'd not just made a terrible decision in refusing Organa's offer. He was left alone again in the lobby and when he walked out into natural air once again, Tatooine assaulted him with its drought and heat.

Instantly, he was sweating, but for an entirely unrelated reason.

"Interesting company you keep, farmer," said the bounty hunter in the green, Mandalorian armor. He pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against and walked away into the city's early afternoon suns.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I get nervous trying to write Vader. I don't feel qualified or something. Maybe I fear retribution through the Force should I mess it up.

Chapter 4

The bridge crew sat hunched over their consoles as Vader stalked about behind them. They'd known he would come to terrorize them, as surely they'd been informed that this was to serve as his flagship for the time being. If they were so weak as to lose their composure whilst he was in a silent fuming level of anger, then of course they could never handle the detonation, when it was always coming, rather like a timed explosive.

Before the mask, people of their ilk had regarded him with adoration. Friendly eyes, open hearts, and a readiness to fight alongside him to the bitter end, whatever was to lie ahead. Now there was only fear, and though it gave him a thrill of its own, the end result was somehow hollow, somehow isolating.

" _I believe you'll find this particular, Venator-class destroyer to your liking."_ Palpatine had said, his voice tinted with amusement.

And it had been a cruel joke. Though the destroyer had been fully restored, and all of its systems updated to match the specs of what Kuat was currently churning out, its familiarity could not be denied, both physically and in the force.

It was the _Resolute_.

Of course, it was not that anymore. _Resolute_ was not a name his master would consider to have significant impact for one of his star destroyers. It had been rechristened as the _Vindicator_. _Haunted Past_ would have been a far more apt name, in Vader's opinion.

The dead seemed to walk the halls. He imagined seeing them in the hangers, manning the guns, looking up at him from the crew pits. He saw the faces of all the Clone Wars officers that once sat at each station. The coms chief, what had been his name? The boy at the tactical console that had appeared far too young for something as serious as war. And the helmsman with the non-regulation hair.

But why, then, did none of them smile? Why did their images regard him with disdain and disappointment, as if after all that Vader had done, all that Vader had sacrificed, he was somehow still found wanting?

They were not there. Like the rest of the ship, the old models had been replaced with cut and dried Imperial models in starched, grey or black uniforms. Even Admiral Yularen was gone, and Vader had always imagined that the stubborn prude would die upon the bridge of his ship.

He hadn't. He was with the ISB, now. Vader had taken the trouble of finding out before boarding so that he wouldn't be caught unaware by a condescending remark.

" _Ah back again, Skywalker? And here I thought I was rid of you for good."_ It would have been something along those lines. And his reply in playful indignation: " _Rid of me? What would you do without me?!"_

But those days were gone... those days when he was still nothing but a child called Skywalker and this ship was still the _Resolute_. Yularen wouldn't know him anymore. Likely he believed the popular theory that Skywalker had met his end in the Purges with all the rest.

 _That old name will heal like a scar. It will become nothing but an aberration in your memories and you will grow stronger because of it. You have a new name, now, and a higher purpose,_ Vader told this to both himself and his star destroyer as he paused before the viewport.

He became aware that an officer was attempting to get his attention, shaking in his boots as if waiting for the proper type of silence to interrupt. Vader was aware that he'd become something terrible, something to be feared above all else, and yet still he lashed out with hatred at all who could not see beyond that facade. Vader turned.

"My Lord, you have a private com-" the base creature squeaked.

"I will take it in my quarters," he answered curtly, so short on patience was he that if anyone else were to speak to him, he could not guarantee their life. As he made his way off the bridge and to the elevator, he pondered on just who could be contacting him through a private channel. Surely it was not the Emperor, for Vader had only just left Coruscant a few days previous, after being issued a new directive to visit Cato Neimoidia and enforce the Emperor's will upon what remained of the Trade Federation.

His stateroom was a welcome change to the destroyer, a peaceable place that could allow him to forget the days past. The Jedi never permitted themselves much luxury and always his stays on the _Resolute_ had been in a bunk with Obi-wan in the adjacent one. Now he was entitled to every accommodation that he received at the palace. Bed, refresher, food terminal and several other things that would see no use at all while he occupied the space, but that he had earned nonetheless, and that were somehow supposed to ease the all-consuming emptiness he still felt.

"Fett," Vader acknowledged when the blue likeness of the bounty hunter formed above the holoprojector

"My Lord," responded the hunter with a small incline of his head. Enough to not be outright insolent, but toeing the line, regardless. It was fortunate that Vader had never been one for formalities and kowtowing. "I've tailed Bail Organa all throughout his campaign in the rim systems. He adheres strictly to his schedule, makes very few deviations," Fett sounded thoroughly bored, as though he considered this job far beneath him. "He was delayed on Rodia for a few days while waiting out a monsoon. Then he traveled to Geonosis to oversee the supplies his charity is providing to rebuild the capital. There, he met with the senator of the Arkanis Sector, received some pointless award..."

Vader tuned out momentarily as his frustration threatened to bubble over. _If you are concealing something from me, I will find it, Organa._ The viceroy had denied all knowledge of Kenobi hiding on his planet, had made certain he would not be implicated the day that Obi-wan was captured. Yet Vader was not so foolish to think that there could be no coincidence of finding his old master on Alderaan. Nor, he suspected, was Bail foolish enough to think Vader would allow the incident to go uninvestiaged.

If only Palpatine had not wrested the newly incarcerated Kenobi from his apprentice's grasp, if only Vader had not stood meekly by while the Emperor's men took possession of his prize and dragged him to the palace cells, where Vader would never be permitted to see him again. A few minutes in an interrogation suite with Obi-wan, and he could have had all these questions answered, but now he only could make do with whatever scraps Sidious deigned to throw him.

" _The temptation would have proved too much,"_ Palpatine had explained, " _He would have used the opportunity to hurt you, Vader. He would sow seeds of doubt in you mind and leave you lost and full of regret. He would seek to weaken you, to reclaim you from me. I only want to save you from this."_

And it had been the truth, Vader knew, for indeed Kenobi would have done all that if given the chance to open his mouth and wag that skillful tongue. And in these interim years, in these damnably empty and lonely years, his anger had dulled from a raging flame to low simmer. Perhaps he would have stood opposite Obi-Wan in that interrogation suite and it would be himself who broke in the end.

In many ways, Kenobi and Sidious were the same creature, vying for control of a powerful weapon. It was all he ever was and all he ever would be. The only being in the galaxy that had seen him as a man rather than a tool to be used was dead. Dead by his own hand.

Fett was still speaking, and Vader was beginning to regret asking to be informed of every minute detail of Organa's extended cruise along the rim worlds, and also for hiring Fett to do the job. He could have sent an intelligence operative, but those few currently at his disposal could not be counted on to report _solely_ to him. Palpatine had suggested he put Organa from his mind. _"His treason will out, my friend. Have patience."_ So to use the network would have countermanded an order from the Emperor. Fett was an independent; an independent with no great love for the Jedi. His loyalty could be purchased and he knew intimately the rim systems on Organa's agenda.

The sound of a familiar word caused Vader to pull out of his introspection.

"-landed on Tatooine for his negotiations with Jabba-" Tatooine. It felt as if the Force was prodding him with a shockblade, taking enjoyment out of having him recall painful memories.

"What negotiations?" Vader asked, interrupting the man.

"They were a bit last minute. Something to do with hyperspace tolls on Alderaanian relief shuttles. It appears Jabba was unable to see him at such short notice, little wonder," Fett finished under his breath. Surely, Vader thought, Bail would have known that the Hutt would not care to meet with him for such a trivial matter, especially since it was the hottest season in Tattoine's habitable zone and Jabba would have absconded to his palace until the weather cooled. "He sat in his hotel suite for two weeks. Never even left the building."

"Never?"

"I am certain," Fett answered, but then there was a small note of hesitation singing in the Force. "It may have been unrelated, and I cannot say for sure as the wave disrupters in his rooms made bugging them impossible, but I think he may have talked briefly with a farmer."

"A farmer," Vader repeated, as if to be sure he had heard properly, as if to remind Fett that a man who wasted his time was a dead man. What business could the Viceroy of Alderaan have with a lowly moisture farmer?

"I may simply be making assumptions, but at the time I thought it odd. A man of low standing. He was rather out of place in the ritzy establishment. I dug up some information on him just to be sure, but there's nothing of note. His name is Owen Lars and he owns a farmstead just outside of Anchorhead."

Another prod with the shockblade. Vader's mind reeled suddenly and he was back upon that very farm.

" _I guess I'm your step-brother."_

He was sitting at the table while the older Lars, whatever his name had been, admitted to leaving his wife, _Anakin Skywalker's_ mother, to the Tuskens. He was slicing through the raiders' flesh with his humming blade. He was holding his mother's lifeless body in his arms. He was kneeling, letting the sand sift thought his fingers as his mother was lowered into her grave.

" _They're like animals! And I slaughtered them like animals!"_ he'd cried, shouting almost. But then Padme had been there to soothe him, to accept him, to commiserate and to let him know that despite all his Jedi teachings, it was not wrong to feel.

"My Lord? Should I investigate this further?" the bounty hunter was saying.

"No," Vader snarled. Quickly. Too quickly, "I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence." This had become dangerous. If Fett were to dig any deeper, he was at risk of uncovering the skeletons buried at the Lars homestead, both real and metaphorical. "I am terminating your mission, bounty hunter. Your account will be credited the full amount."

"That is most generous of-"

Vader had already cut the transmission.

He was alone again with four walls surrounding him and only the suck-hiss of his suit as noise. _There is nothing of my life remaining on Tatooine,_ he reminded himself. Bail Organa's behavior revealed what Vader had always suspected: that the man knew Anakin Skywalker had not died in the Purges, yet it changed nothing. Owen Lars would have little to divulge to Bail Organa, if they had indeed met, only his shameful origins. Nothing of real use.

But it was a low, cowardly thing for a man of supposed impeachable morals to do. Not something he had expected of the high-and-mighty Organa, to involve an _innocent_ , to uproot a simple farmer and coax out information on a man dead to the galaxy, all in hopes of gaining an advantage.

Vader would remember this. If Organa thought to cross him again, he would be sure to pay a visit to the Viceroy's own home on Alderaan. Certainly his wife and daughter would have plenty to say to him were he to put his lightsaber to their throats.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The pebble that broke the bantha's back finally came when Luke was ten standard years.

Anchorhead was liveliest just after the harvest. The small town was quite well known for producing some of the purest grade water on the planet, and as such, buyers and distributors often came into town from the nearby port of Mos Eisley, some even coming all the way from Bestine and Mos Espa. For a short time, the town would bustle, bursting with water and trade and wealth. The hotels would fill, the cantinas would sell themselves dry, and business for all would boom.

But Owen vividly remembered the certain few guests no one had been glad to see. They were there when he pulled into town, lugging the portion of his water he had a buyer interested in. Owen stripped the goggles off his dusty face to make certain he was seeing clearly. What he gazed upon made him narrow his eyes. Two Imperial landspeeders with stormtroopers standing guard.

What were they doing in Anchorhead? Buying water? Chasing a criminal? Only two stood near the vehicles and the speeders had the capacity for perhaps six in total. It was a strangely small number, and so far from the nearest Imperial garrison in Mos Eisley. This could be no official business, Owen decided, and he had no time to wonder about things that didn't concern him.

The buyer met him in the square. He was a slave trader, a Zygerrian by the name of Alwin. Owen had sold to him before, but this year he'd been determined to wring a better price out of the man.

"I won't go any lower," Owen said stubbornly sometime into their discussion. The morning was transitioning into afternoon by then and the heat was laying heavy upon them.

"Your neighbor, Sarsaron gave me a much better deal," the feline man grunted as he rubbed the fur on his chin.

"Sarsaron dilutes his water with his own piss. It ain't yellow due to the sandstone on his land- or whatever banthaspit he's spouting this year, I can tell you that."

"I could throw in a new slave to sweeten the deal. Got some fit young ones that are good with tools," Alwin purred hopefully.

"I already got more than enough mouths to feed. My droid handles the work fine."

"But a slave will never break down on you."

"It will if I don't feed it."

"I have others that do housework...er...things in the bedroom if you catch my drift. How bout it? Anchorhead's a lonely, rural place. I hear your father knew how to treat his slave girls."

Owen banged his first upon the water freighter that he'd been leaning against.

"You think I'm going to sell you anything when you insult my father and my step-mother? Go to Sarsaron, then, and make your disgusting innuendos to him so I can watch him dunk you in a vat of his piss-water."

Beyond fuming, Owen stared over the slaver's shoulder while he stumbled over his apology. How dare he lay those insults when he knew nothing? If Cliegg and Shmi had been nothing more than master and slave then why bother with marriage?

"Alright, I will meet your price," the slaver finally decided, "My stock requires the best if they are to become property of the rim's elite." He pulled out his datapad in preparation for the electronic credit transfer. "Now let us make this fast so that I can be away from that Inquisitor sniffing around your town."

Owen followed the Zygerrian's gaze for a moment and watched as the stormtroopers marched out of a building at the other end of the square. This time they were accompanied by a figure in a black uniform and a face mask not unlike the one worn by Darth Vader. She was female, Owen could tell by the way she walked, and she gave off an air of power and ruthlessness. A strange, circular weapon hung on her belt.

"Sith!" Alwin swore once the troopers had vanished from sight again, "They make the fur stand on the back of my neck. Hopefully she'll go about her business and make it quick."

"What is an Inquisitor's business?" Owen asked, his guard raised once more. Alwin chuckled.

"Jedi, of course," the Zygerrian purred, "They hunt them."

"There aren't any Jedi out here," Owen stated, more for his own reassurance. _Not anymore._

"They come for kids as well. Kids with weird, Jedi powers. They take them and no one quite knows what happens to them after that. They took some merchandise from me before, a little girl born to one of my slaves. Barely off her mother's tit. And did I see a single credit in compensation? I most certainly did not. Damn Imperials."

Owen had ceased listening after the first sentence. Already he had snatched the datapad from the other man's claws and scrawled his signature. He then vaulted into the hauler and unceremoniously detached the barrels. They tumbled onto the sand, nearly crushing the confused Zygerrian, but Owen knew he had to rid himself of the extra weight, and fast.

"Hey! Where are you going?" called Alwin as the hauler roared to life and shot past him. Owen barely heard him over the whine of the engine and his own heartbeat in his ears.

He knew already that the Inquisitor would end up at his farm. The chances of someone like that coming to Anchorhead for any other reason were surely astronomical. Owen's mind shuffled through the various circumstances that could bring Imperials to his doorstep. Kenobi could have broken under their torture, revealed what he'd hidden away on Tatooine. Hapless words from Creesta and the troopers from the garrison in Mos Eisley could have been enough to condemn once the pieces were put together by the right man. Maybe the Empire had uncovered Organa's treasonous plottings and Owen had been implicated in them. Owen had read up a bit on Jedi and Sith abilities when he'd been unsure what his enemies- and supposed friends- were capable of. If all of it were true then it might have been possible that any blasted force-addled individual such as this Inquisitor could have simply _felt_ Luke, like a krayt catching a scent on the wind.

That Owen had ever believed he could feel safe, that his meager little farmstead could have protected someone like Luke from the circling carrion had been the dumbest delusion yet. But hope... hope could poison the mind like that, couldn't it? And love for a nephew that could never be a son, but would fill that gaping hole, regardless.

Owen pushed the bulky vehicle to its limit, paying no heed to its rattling protests. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed from town, but all he could view was the vortex of dust he was kicking up in his wake.

No care was taken to properly pull the hauler into the garage once Owen had arrived at his farmstead. He launched out of the pilot's seat before it had even come to a complete halt, and took the stairs down into the pit at a harried pace. At the bottom, Luke was digging in the dirt belonging to one of Beru's potted plants, and he looked up, guilt stricken, when Owen happened upon him.

Owen merely snatched the boy from his perch and hauled him over his shoulder, ignoring all protests. He went to the landspeeder in the garage with a pack full of supplies and only then did he finally speak to the child.

"I need you to listen well, boy," he said as he placed the kid into the pilot's seat and fixed the belt, "You take this speeder and you drive it as far from this farm as you can. Take it all the way into the Dune Sea, to the old hermit's hut I showed you that time we hunted womp rats. Don't stop for any reason. Don't leave the hut until I come for you or until your water runs out. Do you understand?"

Luke only stared at him, blinking his wide eyes.

"Do you understand me?!" Owen barked again.

"I think so," the child said hesitantly, "Is this another hunting trip? And does this mean I get to pilot?" Owen felt his face soften just a degree before he forced it to exude grim determination once again. He handed his blaster to the boy, wrapping his small fingers around its grip.

"You remember how to use this, don't you?"

"I thought we used the riffle for hunting," the boy replied, confused.

"Not this kind of hunting," Owen growled, aware that the child wouldn't understand. "Now go, Luke."

He started the engine and helped to direct the boy from the garage. The boy took instruction well, for as soon as he was clear of the farm, he shot away into the shimmering heat of the flat horizon. Beru came bursting out of the main building, soap bubbles still upon her hands from whatever she had been washing and rage on her face that slipped away when she laid eyes on her husband.

"Owen!" she was surprised to see him back so soon. "Why is Luke in that speeder? What is going on?"

"We're about to have company, Beru," he told her, "And I need your help."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Spice wafted in front of Boba's helmet when he kicked in the door to the den. Two spiced out women, one human and one...something Boba couldn't remember... screamed and scrambled toward the back exit. The gamblers at the table were still holding their cards. A spice stick had fallen from the Dugg's mouth. One man, possibly Chandrilan or Mandalorian, pulled his blaster and Boba knew he had his target.

Later, as he dragged the unconscious man back to his ship and secured in him in the hold, Boba realized the spiced idiot had pissed himself sometime during the struggle. Disgusting.

These small jobs were no longer anything to congratulate himself on. They had become like shooting bantha in a pen, almost pathetically easy. All the good game had been thinning since the end of the Clone Wars. What use was being able to say one could kill a Jedi when there were none left?

He wondered briefly about his last big job: the Alderaanian Viceroy he'd been paid to tail a year ago. Sure, he'd thought that particular job to be a waste of his talents at the time, but one did not simply refuse an assignment from the Emperor's Enforcer. He'd performed to his usual standards, so it left him puzzled as to why he had been dismissed so abruptly, when Organa's rim campaign was barely halfway through.

Had the Dark Lord been dissatisfied with Boba's work? The bounty hunter struggled with this notion. He'd never been dismissed before, never failed a big job before. Or, was it perhaps possible that Vader had simply given up? It was clear that he'd been waiting for Organa to slip up somewhere, but maybe he'd concluded that the Viceroy was too careful a man.

Or... or the mission had been completed and Vader had found what he'd been watching for. Unlikely, but not impossible. It was difficult to read a man in such a complete mask but he'd seemed frustrated with Boba's lack of useful information in that last report, until...

Until he'd mentioned Tatooine. Then, Vader had gone from frustrated to mildly curious. And after he'd expounded on the farmer...

" _I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence."_ Moisture farmer. Curious that Boba had not mentioned what sort of farming the man did, but Vader had guessed correctly. Surely it was not hard, as no other kind of farming was done upon Tatooine, but nonetheless the word had been... out of place.

Jabba's palace took form in the viewscreen of Slave I and Boba made his descent. Even with the Nav computer turned off, it was still the only break in the endless wastes of the Mesra Plateau, its multiple, unmistakable obelisks rising up into Tatooine's cloudless sky. He set the ship down upon the landing pad that he most often used and powered down. He was not looking forward to dragging the piss-stained debtor in his cargo hold all the way to Jabba's throne room, but perhaps the spice-induced coma would have lifted and Boba would only need to walk behind him with a blaster between his shoulder blades.

It turned out the Hutt was not upon his dais, though his coterie was still gathered in their perverse version of court. Boba was forced to turn his capture over to the dungeon master when his presence was requested in the observation tower several levels above. Jabba was in the midst of speaking to a hologram, or rather he grunted in Huttese while his droid translated. Boba recognized the hologram as the Imperial Administrator for Tatooine. She was a thin faced woman with greying hair visible beneath her cap. Clearly, she was uneasy with conversing with an irate Jabba the Hutt and the exchanged had gone on for quite some time at this point.

"-the Mighty Jabba does not allow Imperial operations to take place upon his planet without his prior consent," the droid was saying in its perfect basic while Jabba continued his rant.

"My hands are tied, Your Eminence. Individuals such as these are no rank and file military personnel. They operate outside of regular channels. They answer only to the head of their organization," the woman responded, clearly attempting to shift blame from herself.

"The mighty Jabba wishes to know what sort of circus the Empire is running, with all your different commands and departments? Is there not someone he can speak to with the power to put a stop to these incursions? If there is not, the Mighty Jabba fears that he will be unable to continue providing his support. He wishes to remind you, Administrator, that the outer rim hyperspace lanes can prove to be a very dangerous place to an enemy of the Hutt clan," the droid delivered the threat with perfect nonchalance, as it was programmed, but it still caused the Administrator to stiffen.

"I shall contact Moff Grandir on this matter," she relented, realizing the situation was beyond her scope of power. Jabba grunted something vile in his race's tongue that Boba did not catch from his end of the room.

"See that you do," the droid translated merrily. The connection ended and the blue holo woman disappeared from above the projector. Eventually, Boba stepped forward, reminding himself that this was Jabba and not Vader. Jabba was not in the habit of executing his own upon a whim, no matter how foul his mood.

" _The smuggler named Ronan, who owes you a debt of fifty thousand credits, is now slated to become one of your rancor's meals,"_ Boba said in Huttese, now wondering why he'd been summoned if not simply to report this.

" _Fifty thousand credits are nothing to me when I have Imperial scum overstepping their bounds every chance they get! I will be the laughing stock of the Hutt council if I cannot be seen to remain in control of my own territory. I want you to take care of this, Fett,"_ the slug-creature boomed, turning his massive body to Boba.

" _What is it you need?"_ Boba asked, only slightly hesitant.

" _There's an Imperial Inquisitor prowling somewhere near Mos Eisley like a Tusken in the night. I want it gone from my city and gone from my planet. I made it clear to the Empire in our agreement that I never wanted to see one of their force-cursed Jedi on Tatooine."_

" _But isn't the Inquisition made up of Sith?"_ Boba attempted to correct the Hutt gently as possible. It did not work. The fat Hutt slammed his tail upon the ground.

" _Sith! Jedi! Open your puny eyes, humaniod. They are the same, disgusting thing. I've made deals in the past with both and learned never to trust either side. Their force-god is fickle and self-serving, their greed and corruption overtakes even Hutt vices, for at least we make no attempt at concealment. I want this thing dead before it can embarrass me or threaten the lives of myself or my family."_

Again, the bounty hunter hesitated. A job like this would put him in direct contention with the Empire, and the Empire had employed him in the past. Vader was an even more high profile client than Jabba, and it wouldn't do to displease him in any way.

Yet, it was Jabba that sent steady work his way, not Vader. It was Jabba that kept him rich, not Vader. Loyalty was a foolish concept to a bounty hunter, but the fact was that Jabba knew the value of treating his people right, and when they performed he would continue to do so.

But of course, he was Boba Fett, the greatest bounty hunter to ever grace the galaxy, like his father before him. He could cover his tracks. He could make certain that the Empire never found out who murdered the Inquisitor. And had he not, only mere minutes before, been lamenting the lack of good prey? Here, finally, was a challenge. Jabba grew tired of his silence.

" _You have a problem with this, Fett? Grown soft over the years? Too afraid to take on a Jedi? Bah, I have a million bounty hunters waiting to fill your position. Greedo wouldn't balk at this opportunity."_ Boba straightened, coming to a decision.

" _I'll do it, of course. I'll bring you its head, and then you will be free to show both the Empire and the Hutt council what the Mighty Jabba does to uninvited Sith-spawn."_

Jabba smiled his wide, greedy smile.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Boba commandeered a landspeeder for his hunt, as Slave I would be bulky and obnoxious and this Inquisitor would require subtlety; a sniper shot most likely so that he'd be too far for the damn _force_ to give him away. Once he'd tracked the son-of-a-neck he could set up a confrontation, and prepare a trap before-hand if time allowed.

He picked up the scent the next morning in Mos Eisley, where he found the TIE Intercepter that the Inquisitor had arrived in. Overheard discussions in the Imperial garrison revealed that the Inquisitor was a 'she' rather than a 'he', and that tensions were running high with her presence. It seemed Inquisitors gave their enemies _and_ their allies the creeps and all of Tatooine, Imperial or otherwise, couldn't wait to see the back of this Force-mad creature.

Well, it seemed Boba would be doing everyone a service. He should have asked for more credits.

In his search he drifted from Mos Eisley into the desert and then into the tiny town of Anchorhead. There, he found the Imperial transports and the stormtrooper guard. Boba had to wonder why they would bother coming all the way out here. Even if they were in the business of assassinating Jedi and collecting Jedi-ish children, it just seemed so unlikely that anyone in this town, or anywhere upon Tatooine for that matter, could ever pose any threat to the galaxy.

In the town's center, Boba found a disheveled Zygerrian watching a few slaves move barrels of water into a rented land freighter. After a casual conversation, Boba discovered the likely target of the Inquisitor, as he had fled the town as soon as he'd laid eyes upon the woman. He also learned the Inquisitor's target's name, and it was one that was eerily familiar.

Lars.

Boba now knew exactly where he was headed and he turned his speeder onto the dirt road that led out of town. Was this coincidence? It seemed many odd things were happening to this particular farmer. Was he just some ordinary man that fate had a grudge against? Or was he something more? And then there was the question as to who had sent the Inquisitor to his farm. Maybe the man had been an accessory to whatever charges, if any, Vader was able to slap upon Bail Organa. It didn't seem to warrant a visit from the Inquisition, rather than a visit from the ISB. Even if it did, why would it be a year late in coming?

Perhaps this was unrelated. _I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence,_ Vader had said very clearly. This statement made it seem unlikely that Vader had sent this Inquisitor. From Boba's understanding, members of the Inquisition were more akin to free agents. They had one task above all others and that was to ensure the extermination of the Jedi. Then could this farmer be a Jedi? But if he was, why would he lead the Inquisitor back to his home?

Ah, he was harboring a Jedi, then. He'd had to get home to warn the person of the coming danger. This suddenly seemed the most likely scenario.

Boba stopped still a great distance from the farm so that he could tuck away his speeder in a hidden gorge. He closed the remaining distance using the boosters upon his back. Once upon the property, he noticed the black figure of the Inquisitor in her form-fitting suit in the distance. He landed before she could spot him or sense him and he crept along the ground to avoid being seen. There was little in the way of cover, it was all just flat and empty desert, but eventually Boba managed to find a rock large enough to conceal him while he waited for his opportunity.

"Come out of your little hut, farmer. I know you are there. Bring the child and we will make this as painless as possible for the both of us," the suited woman said loudly.

Child. The Inquisitor was after a child rather than a trained Jedi. Even as despicable as Boba often found himself, it made it seem hope was not lost for him when he was reminded that there were people out there that hunted defenseless children. But Boba was quite sure he'd once read that Lars had no children. Then again, a year was enough time to change that.

A man stumbled from the dome. It was Lars. He'd a blaster in hands that were shaking badly.

"I have to know," began the man in a raspy voice. He must realize he was on the verge of death, "Did _he_ send you?"

"Just hand over the child, farmer," the Inquisitor repeated, bored almost. She stood calmly with one hand placed upon her hip in a cocksure manner. Boba would soon remind her that carrying a lightsaber upon her belt did not make her a god, but he wanted to eavesdrop on this for just a little longer.

He had to satisfy this weird curiosity; piece together the farmer named Owen Lars.

"Did he send you!?" Lars shouted now, gaining confidence by hearing the strength of his own voice. "Did Darth Vader send you to this farm!? Did he send you to murder that boy in full knowledge of his name and ancestry?!"

Boba went cold, realizing that he had indeed stumbled upon something deeper and more dangerous than he could have imagined, for to invoke that name was to bring the demon upon oneself. The Inquisitor only laughed at this, a small, light chuckle.

"Answer me, woman!"

"You are not so important, I'm afraid. The Dark Lord of the Sith does not need to be informed of every Force-sensitive I come across. And we care not for names, only abilities and the potential for those abilities. This is nothing personal, farmer." Boba watched the man, inexplicably, relax at this. His eyes shut momentarily and his chest fell in a small sigh of relief.

"He's only a boy."

"He and all his kind are traitors to the Empire," the Inquisitor insisted impatiently. The farmer looked for a moment as if he wished to say something, an argument or an admittance. Boba did not breathe, as if remaining still enough might encourage the farmer to speak his terrible secrets. The farmer's mouth opened but he soon shut it again and grit his teeth.

"He knows nothing of that Force hocus-pocus. And I'll never hand him over. Not to you," he growled.

"Then I will simply take him."

"Over my dead body." And with that, he dropped to the ground.

It was at this moment that there was a bright flare of light. Beams erupted from all the nearby vaporators and created a series of intricate connections with one another. The energy pulsated and made the very air crackle.

"Stars," Boba breathed to himself. He was pinned up against his rock, which had become his savior, unable to move even an inch or else the energy beam would sear his chest. Turning his head back to where the others had stood, he saw that the farmer had been anticipating the beams when he'd dropped. Now he was on his belly, in a shallow hole in the sand in front of him while the multicolored light burned just over his head. Crafty fellow, Boba realized. He'd had this planned.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately- in light of the unclaimed bounty- the Inquisitor had been too quick. She'd jumped to the top of the nearest vaporator and ignited her red lightsaber. She slashed a long line down the metal and disrupted the channeling of that particular vaporator. Now she had created a dead spot in the web, a wide circle that freed both her and the farmer and the entrance into the dome. The farmer fired two blaster shots but the Inquisitor redirected them so that they returned and struck the man in each leg. He cried out in agony and she used the force to pull his weapon from him. Then, she walked calmly past him and into his home.

"Beru!" the farmer called, "Oh stars! Beru!"

The farmer began to drag himself back to the dome, but he did not attempt to enter. Instead he began digging frantically in the sand near the brick. He unearthed a riffle, a long, dangerous looking riffle. And it wasn't just any old riffle, Boba realized. It was a T-7 ion disrupter riffle. Boba was flabbergasted. How in the galaxy did a mere farmer manage to get his hands on a weapon of that caliber?

Smoke had started to trickle out the entrance to the dome and it wasn't long before flames were licking the sides. When the Inquisitor emerged again, the farmer had been waiting. He fired the riffle with deadly precision but it was not enough to lock down his enemy. She evaded the shots of the bulky weapon. One shot went wide and hit the vaporator nearest to Boba, completely disintegrating it. Debris rained down upon the bounty hunter, but he'd been freed from the trap that had held him in place. Boba drew his own riffle from where it had been slung across his back and set it over his protective rock. He waited.

"Impressive, farmer," the Inquisitor remarked, mirroring Boba's own thoughts. She kicked the T-7 away from the strewn form of the wounded man and it skidded across the sand. Then she took hold of the man by his short, brown hair. "Where is the child?" she asked again, this time angrier and far less indulgent.

Now that she was still, Boba fixed her in his cross-hairs. He had a good shot at the Inquisitor from his angle and when he fired his aim was true. He blasted a hole clean through her forehead. She slumped to the ground. It was as simple and quick as that.

 _They sure don't make 'em like they used to..._ Boba mused.

The hunter did not immediately leave his hiding place, curious as to the farmer's next move. To his credit, the man only sat there in shock for a short time. It seemed the farmer did not know or care what had felled the enemy. He had something more important on his mind. He staggered to his feet and limped his way into the burning house. Shortly after, the power being drawn through the vaporators finally ebbed to nothing, and the web disappeared.

The farmer emerged again a short time later, half carrying, half dragging the unconscious and burned form of a woman Boba had not yet seen. The farmer's wife, perhaps? He hauled his wife into a heavy freight hauler that remained undamaged off to the side of the complex. After a few seconds of fumbling with the controls, he began to chug away from the doomed farm.

It was only then, with a new silence all around broken only by the crackling flames, that Boba realized that the rock he leaned against was no simple rock. It was a tombstone.

It read: _Shmi Skywalker._

.o.o.o.o.o.

Luke had never spent a night in the Dune Sea. Even the hunting trips he'd gone on with Uncle Owen were only day trips, out to the south canyon. To go any further was suicide, Uncle Owen would say. Beyond the canyon, the speeder wouldn't have enough fuel to make it back to the farm. Uncle Owen always warned Luke that a man that lost his way out in the desert was worse than dead. No one would ever think to look for him. If they did, the Dune Sea was so vast that it was near impossible to locate a single man in it before his water stores ran dry.

Luke would never forget that night in the hermit's hut. Scared. So scared. All night it felt like something bad was going to happen... or that something bad was already happening. Where was Uncle Owen? He said he was coming. This was all just some crazy new game, wasn't it? Any moment, he'd bang on the barricaded door and demand that Luke stop huddling and crying in his corner. Boys that had lived through ten harvests were too old to cry.

Things that hid from the heat of the twin suns during the day came alive at night. They prowled around the hut in the dark. Luke listened to them during those long, sleepless hours. He listened as they tore apart the speeder, he heard their nails scrabble at the walls protecting him, he closed his hands over his ears to escape their grunts and chitters and howls.

The tears came all through the night, making smooth lines down his dirty face. When Tatoo 1 rose from the sky to bake the sand again, Luke cried still, happy now that it was all over. Uncle Owen came for him when the two suns were high in the sky.

"Luke!" he called in his gruff and familiar voice. It was the best sound in the world, Luke decided. He moved the heavy rocks from in front of the door.

"I've got you, boy. I've got you," Uncle Owen said as he wrapped his strong arms around him. Luke grabbed fistfuls of his sandy clothing and put his wet face deep into the folds. "It's gonna be alright. It's all gonna be alright," Luke could feel his uncle shaking as he said this. Even his voice was trembling.

"I don't want to do any more hunting trips," Luke sniffled.

"The hunting's over... for now," a warm hand was placed upon the back of Luke's head, fingers threading through the hair, petting it softly. Uncle Owen lifted him and carried him in his arms. Together, they got into a speeder that Luke was sure wasn't from the farmstead but that he still recognized.

"Is this... Grandma Whitesun's speeder?" Luke asked quietly as his uncle disentangled him and started the engines. Owen sighed and Luke remembered that he didn't approve of Luke calling Vern and Bernice Whitesun his grandparents even thought they insisted at every opportunity.

"We are borrowing it for a while," Owen replied with a sad gaze at his own speeder that sat near the hut, gutted in the night of all its vital parts. His uncle's eyes were rimmed with red, tired and bloodshot, as if he too had been up all night long. His clothing was burned at the ends and both this thighs had dirty bacta dressings wrapped around them. Luke wanted to ask what happened, but he was so caught up in his own relief, that it didn't seem to matter enough to say out loud.

It was a long, blistering drive back to the farm. Hours spent in the sun while the day was at its hottest. While they were moving, the wind kept them cool, but the relentless rays of Tatoo 1 and 2 scorched all their unprotected skin.

Luke was confused when Uncle Owen parked the speeder near the south ridge and powered it down. He refused to look at Luke as he opened the door on his side.

"We are going to live with the Whitesuns for a few weeks. We are only here to pick up some things and I want you to stay put. Do not follow me or leave this speeder, you hear?"

"But why?" Luke asked. Still, his uncle did not look at him.

"No questions right now. The sooner we're out of the sun the better. Just stay here."

Luke slumped in his seat, resigning himself to a hot wait, for it would take his Uncle a half hour to walk all the way to the farm and back from here. He watched the man as he limped up the ridge on his bandaged legs and disappeared over the top of it.

But suddenly Luke realized that if he was going to be staying in Anchorhead for a while then he would need some toys to play with. The Whitesuns didn't have anything to do at their old townhouse. Luke jumped from the speeder and took off at a run up the slope, determined to catch up to his uncle.

At the top, he finally saw what his uncle didn't want him to see. There, in the distance, there was no farm, only smoke rising from a burning crater.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 _Drop it, Boba. Drop it, before it ends up killing you,_ he told himself. _Leave the farmer to his fate as Vader once suggested._ He repeated this over and again in his head, but still, his disobedient fingers moved over the terminal's keys.

Soon it became clear that Tatooine's census data could tell him nothing, same as the rest, and it was something he should have expected. All he needed was a small snippet of information, a blurb or a sentence that proved insignificance, and yet all had been wiped clean. The more Boba attempted to dig, the more he was convinced that this was no accident. Someone had been very meticulous when combing these files.

Boba shoved himself away from the saloon's terminal abruptly. The old chair clattered to the ground and he didn't bother to stoop down and right it. Instead, he aimed a kick at it and sent it spinning across the floor.

No one nearby even looked up from their drinks. Violent outbursts were a daily occurrence in Chalman's and unless things ended with a man lying dead in a pool of his own blood, most were considered uninteresting. The bounty hunter muscled his way back through the unwashed crowd congregating around the bar. He could smell the spice upon their skins and the taint of alcohol upon their breath, penetrating even beneath the helmet.

Bossk sat at his usual booth, feet on the table and a datapad in his claws. He sipped his frothing pint and his long, reptilian tongue flicked out to lap what slopped down the side of the glass.

"What's eating you, Boba?" he asked, voice a mix of annoyed resignation and genuine concern when the more humanoid hunter dropped into the seat opposite him. Boba rolled his shoulders and assumed a more neutral posture, forcing away the anger remaining from his outburst. Was he a child now, throwing tantrums when he hit a dead end?

"I'm looking for records on a woman, but according to every system, file, or archive that I access, she never existed," the helmeted hunter explained. He could divulge his little side mission to Bossk and know with certainty that the information wouldn't go any further. One might say they were friends, or at least long time acquaintances that held one another in high regard.

Boba's search did little to pique the Trandoshan's interest. He didn't even look up from the datapad, still calmly swiping pages to find something to his liking.

"Not many reasons to do that to a person, or for a person to do that to himself. Either she's one of the Empire's undesirables, or she was a Separatist agent back in the day. Have you checked Datacore?

"I'd have to be a guild member for that," Boba growled. Bossk could do it for him, but Boba knew that if someone had been so careful to remove any trace of this woman, why would they then go and post a detailed file on the Core? It would make no sense.

"Pity." It was Bossk's way of demonstrating the perks of being a guild member. Boba had thus far resisted the lures of the guild, due to his own belief that it was a form of enslavement. A bounty hunter's freedom from all organizations was one of his tools of the trade.

"She wont be there, either. I suspect she was wiped, possibly on account of Jedi relations. I just wish there was a way to confirm it. Can't act on a mere suspicion."

"You looking for her?"

"She's dead."

"Then why does this matter?" Bossk had finally looked up from his reading to regard his fellow hunter. "Let me give you some advice. Stop this now. The Jedi are the Inquisition's business these days, and they tend to get tetchy when us bounty hunters infringe upon their holy mission and nab their prey. You'll get yourself in trouble trying to dig things up on a Jedi, if that's what you're after."

Bossk was right, of course. Whatever Boba was able to uncover in this, the only people such information would have any value to would be the Inquisition or the ISB, and Jabba wouldn't appreciate more of their TIE's sitting in Mos Eisely's docking bays. Boba didn't know what, if anything, he was after. He didn't know what side he ought to take in this, and yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he was incapable of turning back even knowing it could be his doom that lied in wait. It had become an inexplicable obsession.

 _Skywalker._

It wasn't an altogether common surname, but to the older generations who'd fought in the Clone Wars, and to Boba's generation who'd grown up in the turbulent wartimes, it was a name that brought an image to mind.

An image of the Republic's propaganda hero, their poster Jedi. The 'Hero With No Fear'. Boba remembered crossing paths with him once before, on the Republic cruiser _Endurance_. Boba had been thoroughly uninterested at the time, as he'd had eyes only for Mace Windu and the revenge his death would bring.

 _Self-important twat,_ Boba recalled his singular thought on Skywalker whilst the young, arrogant Jedi gave a short speech to the clone cadets the bounty hunter had hidden himself among. Tall, broad, scar over one eye. Bit of a pretty-boy, really, and if Boba had not caught a glimpse of him in action a bit later on, he would have assumed that the man had no talent whatsoever and that the Republic had made up all those tales of heroism to support the Jedi agenda.

Boba had not spared the extra Jedi another glance after that speech, for the man had been just another obstacle standing in the way of Mace Windu's murder. But now the hunter wished he'd payed more attention to the youth dressed in black, with that insufferable, cocky attitude and that winning smile...

Shmi Skywalker was the name upon the gravestone outside the Lars farmhouse. Might there be a connection? Alone, the odds were horribly unlikely, but with the arrival of an Imperial Inquisitor, and with the peculiar conversation that had played out between her and the farmer, the odds suddenly jumped.

"You've been haunting this pisspot longer than I have," Boba said to Bossk, persisting against all reason. "Any indication that the Jedi knight, Skywalker, had family here upon Tatooine?"

Bossk looked almost startled for a moment, eyes flicking down to his datapad and back to Boba suspiciously. Then he grew thoughtful, as if something had just come together in his mind, and then he looked to Boba again, expecting the same thing to have occurred to him. Boba only raised a brow beneath his helmet.

"Sometimes I forget how young you are," the Trandoshan remarked with a sigh. He set down his datapad and Boba glanced at it. It was displaying an article on podracing. His eyes skimmed over the title and he realized what had given Bossk that strange expression.

 _New human podracer to take the stage this Eve. Will he be the next Skywalker?_

"Check the records from the 10 BCW Boonta Eve Classic," Bossk advised. "I've a feeling that the Empire may have overlooked them even in their zest to remove all persons Jedi."

.o.o.o.o.o.

"So there is nothing you can do," Owen intoned, impatiently. In the sterile, hushed environment of the medicenter his voice came out louder and rougher than he'd intended.

"I can stabilize her and that is all. She has full thickness burns covering more than half of her skin's surface area. The smoke inhalation and anoxia has resulted in a substantial breakdown of tissue in the brain. If she eventually wakes, she may not remember who you are, or may even be incapable of forming new memory entirely. Recommended treatments, such as full bacta immersion and cognitive implants, are not available at this medical facility nor at any facility upon this planet." The medi-droid said in its calm voice, as if it were not delivering news that could destroy a man's life.

Owen stared down at his dying wife, defeated, dejected. His fingers curled tightly upon the bars at the foot of the hospital bed.

He had nothing left. No farm, no vehicles, no vaporators, no tools or equipment. The money from the single harvest that had remained untouched by recent events was already credited to this medicenter in Anchorhead. Yet it all paled in comparison to the thought of losing Beru.

Typically, Owen was a man that owed up to the consequences of his own actions, but this... this was too much to shoulder. Someone needed to take the blame for this. Someone needed to _pay_ for all of this.

" _War may come to your doorstep whether you want it to or not,"_ Organa had said.

" _Guess everyone has their price."_

" _I'd be most curious to discover what yours is, Mr. Lars."_

Owen moved to the side of the bed and took Beru's hand, the one that was not melted beyond recognition. He held it in his own as he stared at her half burnt face.

"I'll fix this, love. You know I will," he promised her. It was his stupid imagination that made him think she was grasping him back in reassurance. Owen looked over to Luke, who was standing at the other end of the bed, looking tiny and helpless. His hair was, for once, combed back respectably, no doubt the work of Beru's mother. His skin and clothing were free from the dust of the farm, more evidence of his in-laws' efforts to care for the child whist Owen had sat for the last two rotations at Beru's bedside.

Even submerged in his despair, Owen could not bring himself to hate the boy for this. He was painfully innocent, and the only thing more tragic than what had befallen Beru was the inexorable tragedy that was the child's own life. It struck him now as it had done so many times before; that fate could be so cruel. The boy had already lost a mother, a Jedi teacher, and possibly a father. Owen wouldn't be able to hide _this_ loss from the boy like he'd done with the others.

Owen sighed. There was no choice of remaining here in Anchorhead when he'd no means of making a living. He and the boy would go to Mos Eisley, back to Creesta's shabby apartment and that dull, monotonous job repairing spacecraft by day and service droids by night. Every spare credit that he'd make out there would be sent back here in order to keep these machines running, but it was all temporary.

Because it couldn't go on like this. Even if he accepted all these losses and moved on, sooner or later, there would be another threat to deal with. And they were getting progressively harder to beat down. He knew he could go to Organa; participate in his upstart rebellion like he'd been asked to a year previous. He could fight fire with fire. Or... or he could put the fire out at its source. He could do something that he should have done ten years ago.

"Is she going to open her eyes soon?" Luke asked quietly. He'd come to stand by Owen, lightly tugging on his uncle's sleeve as he turned his big, blue eyes upward.

"No. She is badly hurt," Owen admitted to the child, softly. Perhaps softer than he'd ever spoken to the boy. He gripped the small shoulder of his nephew but it was to steady himself, if anything. As if sensing his growing distress, Owen felt Luke slip his tiny hand into his own, relishing in the physical contact that Owen so rarely indulged in. The farmer felt the corners of his eyes prickle as he contemplated all that he had done, and all that he still had to do. It made him feel dirty and wretched to think that no matter which path he chose to take from this point on, it all amounted to the same.

In order to save Beru, one way or another, he would have to give up Luke.

.o.o.o.o.

A/N: The podrace that Anakin won was in 32 BBY but because BBY stands for 'before battle of Yavin' and clearly the battle of Yavin hasn't yet taken place, how can I possibly use this date? The podrace was ten years before the clone wars so I went with 10 BCW instead.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'm getting impatient, so I'm giving you two chapters today.

Chapter 8

It was a hot one, even by Tatooine's standards. Stepping outside the shade of Mos Espa's alleys was enough for one to begin to feel his blood boil beneath his skin. The pretty, domed roofs of the better areas were visible in the distance, in sharp contrast to the disorderly heaps of junk that made up the scrapyards.

Boba swept into the run-down shop. The inside looked as though a sandstorm had blown through it. A layer of dust settled over the metal parts and coils of wire hanging from the ceiling. Droids with missing limbs and access panels ripped from their hinges were strewn about the work tables and floors. Shelves were cluttered with unrecognizable debris that looked as though it had not been touched in years.

"Read the sign. We are closed. Come back at dusk!" the Toydarian in the corner rasped, not bothering to rise from his chair that was tilted back against the wall. He removed the old rag he had settled over his eyes when he realized his guest hadn't turned away. He took in Boba's appearance, glancing over the armor and helmet with growing recognition and alarm. Shaking off the last vestiges of his midday slumber, the Toydarian lifted himself into the air with the use of his tiny wings.

"I don't owe anybody any credits. Whatever it is, I didn't do it," he said, gesturing with his fat fingers for emphasis. "Who hired you, huh? Was it that sack of bantha poodoo, Gasgano?"

"I'm only here ask you about a couple of slaves you once owned."

"I never owned a slave," the Toydarian replied, waving dismissively. "Now leave before I call in my security. They won't ask you nicely."

"It's true that none of Tatooine's records indicate you ever owned a set of slaves, but those of the 10 BCW Boonta Eve Classic list the winning pilot as a slave belonging to you."

"I know nothing. You are mistaken bounty hunter."

"No? That's a shame," Boba said. He thumbed his blaster meaningfully and the shop owner did not miss it. His bulging eyes narrowed.

"I've got friends in high places too, you know," the Toydarian said, this time much lower, voice dropping the thin veil of innocence he'd kept up thus far. "You think you can come in here and threaten me? Take your questions elsewhere or maybe I go to Jabba myself and explain how this harassment is interfering with the running of his scrapyards, eh? I'll make it clear, bounty hunter. I had the boy only for a short while, and he was no Jedi at that time. And back then there were no rules against Jedi pilots competing in races. You can prove nothing."

Boba nearly laughed at the conclusion the parts dealer had drawn. He was not interested in the integrity of a past gamble, though he now had proof of his suspicions by that single admittance.

"So you sold them after the race?"

"The Jedi took the boy, and robbed me blind in the process, I might add. I sold his mother to a moisture farmer not long after."

"The farmer's name?" Boba asked, though he of course already knew. There was some reason that he still needed that verbal confirmation, however. The Toydarian was looking terribly uncomfortable now, as if he regretted spilling so much information. His hand went to the back of his neck and scratched.

"He knew even less. Didn't even follow podracing, and he is dead now, I hear. Cliegg Lars was his name."

Boba closed his eyes as the rush of satisfaction hit him and the final piece fell into place. _Did he send you to murder that boy in full knowledge of his name and ancestry?!_ The grave upon the Lars farm belonged to the mother of the famous Jedi and the child that Lars was hiding somewhere could only be a very close relative of that same Jedi. It was no wonder that Lars had been expecting that Inquisitor for he'd been aware since the beginning exactly _what_ he was keeping beneath his roof.

Boba recalled Bail Organa's visit to Tatooine. The Viceroy had known Lars's secret, which might have meant that the Jedi, Kenobi, had known. Vader had been on their trail almost immediately, perhaps sensing that it might lead him to a new target and then...

 _I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence._

The farmer's puzzling relief when the Inquisitor had said:

 _The Dark Lord of the Sith does not need to be informed of every Force-sensitive I come across_.

Vader had refused to acknowledge the final link in the chain, preventing him from discovering this theoretical Jedi offshoot.

 _You've an Angel gunning for you somewhere in the realms beyond, Lars,_ Boba thought. And then he abruptly broke away from his musings.

"Your cooperation has been appreciated," he said to the scruffy, blue alien, and of course he made it sound rough and ominous and punctuated it with a flourish of his blaster. "If I were you, I'd not mention this to any of my fellows, because I'd be fear a 'tying of loose ends' if you catch my drift." The bounty hunter turned, brushing aside the dirty cloth that hung in the shop's entranceway and leaving the scowling Toydarian to his own business once again.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Owen held his tumbler, staring down at the grease trapped beneath his fingernails from the day's work on a craft with quadruple ion engines. He wondered if he should take out his knife and dig out the grime where it had settled, but then what was the point? It would only be there again tomorrow. Droplets of condensation had gathered on the glass and he watched one trickle onto the bar top as he brooded over his options. Time and money were drying up, sure as water in the Dunesea.

Organa was the safer option, with his open offer still standing. It would be easy to slip into his rebellion and carve out a new life. The Viceroy had even left the farmer a way to get in contact with him, should the need arise. The need was there, but still Owen made no move.

Because Owen knew, somewhere deep in his soul, that he would regret it terribly if he never dared to explore the second option. Vader could offer everything Organa could and more, if he chose to acknowledge the family he'd left behind.

It was a very big 'if', a massive leap of faith, and a massive risk besides, for Owen to make the assumption that Vader was still the same man he once was.

Yet, didn't every man, even the evilest and vilest of them, deserve the chance to know their own son? Or at the very least be made aware of a son's existence? Some part of Owen raged every time he thought of how Vader had been cheated in the most heinous of ways, regardless of what he might have done to deserve it. And if he did deserve it, this boy could have been his redemption, but the Jedi and the defenders of the Old Republic had stolen it all from him.

Owen himself was implicit in this. It weighed at the back of his mind, tearing him apart slowly with the urge to set things right, but there was a complication now.

Luke.

Owen's desire to reunite father and son was tempered by the desire to keep Luke from harm at all costs. There was no guarantee that the two desires wouldn't come in conflict with one another.

"...the joints were rusted, so I replaced them," Luke was saying to Owen, bringing the farmer back to the present. The boy sat atop the bar in the Tipsy Jawa, scrawny legs dangling over the side as he messed around with a power pack. Owen sat a stool beside him, nursing his booze and holding a spice stick in the hand further from Luke. Regrettably, he'd taken up the habit again since coming to Mos Eisley.

There seemed just no other way to calm his frayed nerves.

"Did you oil the new joints? Improper care was how they rusted in the first place," Owen grunted.

"Of course, I'm not stupid," the kid said, affronted. He wiped the sweaty strands of blonde mop out of his face and smeared a bit of grease upon his cheek in the process. The boy could be damned cute sometimes, Owen reflected, though the sand devil take him if he'd ever admit that out loud.

"Oh yeah? Sometimes I'm not so sure," the farmer said, having to speak around the spice stick that was now in his mouth. Luke glared at him, unimpressed, but whether it was with the spice or with the comment, Owen wasn't sure.

"Your stormtrooper friends came today. They were asking Creesta if you'd be here tomorrow."

"You didn't talk to them did you?" Owen said, a note of warning now in his voice. Luke wrinkled his nose.

"No. They were drunk. And Creesta was making me take the garbage out to the trash compactors."

Owen would have to commend the Rodian on a job well-done. Keeping the boy busy enough that he couldn't get himself into trouble was no easy task. It was fortunate that Luke didn't seem to mind the work. If anything, the boy seemed to enjoy being useful, and he was fascinated by city life.

But Owen's efforts to shelter the child at the farm were coming back to bite him in the ass. The boy was hopelessly naive. He'd no subtlety or tact and he'd no qualms speaking to all the nefarious types that came and went from the cantina. Some might call it endearing, but Owen called it dangerous.

"You have a holo message waiting for you in the back, Lars," the Rodian made his reappearance, two bottles of whiskey under his arm waiting to stock his bar.

"From who?"

"What do I look like, your personal assistant? Get a damn comlink and stop fielding your calls through my terminal. It's for paying customers, you cheap-ass son-of-a-neck," Creesta said, though it lacked any real vitriol. Owen grumbled under his breath and stood, and Luke eagerly jumped down from the bar to accompany him to the room in the rear of the cantina.

"Maybe Aunt Beru woke up in the hospital!" the child said as he squirmed excitedly. "Can we go back and visit her?" Owen shushed him as he entered his PIN into the machine and it blinked to life. One recorded message sat in his inbox and, mind set on Beru and her condition, he never realized it might not be from the medi-center. He set it to play.

The blue-skinned Toydarian was no medi-droid. Owen waited while the holo of the parts dealer fiddled with his projector, but the result was only a slightly less corrupted image. " _Stupid machine,"_ the Toydarian growled in Huttese.

"Who's that?" Luke asked, confused.

"No one you need to know about," Owen replied quickly. The message finally began in earnest.

"Lars," said the Toydarian as he pointed a fat finger at what would have been the lens, "You are a good man and a good customer, so I'll give you this warning for free. The next one is gonna cost you." The image leaned in closer, conspiratorial almost. "There was a bounty hunter, Boba Fett, here the other day asking some very annoying questions about some former slaves of mine. He, ahhh," the dealer looked sheepish for a moment, "he may be headed your way. I have no idea which _sleemo_ is paying him, but, ahh maybe hide that _pedunkee_ of yours, just to be safe, eh? And that T-7 riffle. Don't get caught with that. It wasn't... strictly speaking... acquired legally."

The message descended into static and it appeared Watto had given up messing with the equipment. The recording ended.

"Wow, a real bounty hunter? Can I meet him?" was Luke's first question, but his uncle did not hear him. Owen scowled, taking the spice stick from his mouth and throwing it onto the ground. He crushed it beneath his boot.

Yet another outsider was sicking his nose in where it didn't belong. No doubt, this was the same bounty hunter that he'd seen here at this cantina and then again at the hotel in Mos Espa. Was it him as well on the farm when Owen had encountered the Inquisitor? Someone had fired that shot, and though Owen had done his best to keep it from his mind, there was no denying that there was some, intrusive, third party watching over him. How much did he know? Quite a bit, surely, if this wasn't all just coincidence. It didn't bode well. It was like a kick in the jewels while he was already on the ground. He had to find out what this hunter knew and what he might do with the knowledge.

Having such a dangerous unknown running loose could sure as sand throw a wrench into his plans.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Owen said to the boy, only just realizing how incredibly late it was. Monitoring the kid's bedtime had never been one of his duties on the farm. Luke's eyes shifted to the ground and he mumbled something incoherent. Owen pointed to the staircase that led to the flat upstairs. "Get going, and brush your teeth, for stars' sake." The farmer waited until the child had trudged up the stairs and out of sight before he made for the bar again, this time joining his friend behind it.

"That bounty hunter in the Mandalorian armor," Owen began as he opened one of the cupboards beneath the sink and rummaged through the back of it, pulling out a D-17 blaster, Clone Wars issue. "He still come around these parts?"

"Nah. The bounty hunters and smugglers all took their business to the Kerner district a while back. They probably congregate at that dive, Chalmun's. Seems my place is too friendly with stormtroopers for their liking," he nodded at a group of garrison officers over in the corner. "Suppose I have you to thank for that," Creesta said pointedly. The farmer scowled.

"I did you a favor. Smugglers, especially the Corellians, are lousy tippers," said Owen, distracted as he fit a magazine into blaster and weighed it in his hand for a moment. Creesta shrugged.

"Maybe you're right. Business is business. Might as well be the legal kind," the old Rodian agreed. Owen slipped the weapon into his belt at the small of his back.

"I'll be out tonight. Make sure the boy stays upstairs."

"You're getting an invoice for all this kid-sitting I'm doing. And a word of advice, Lars," Creesta said raising his voice to catch Owen as he turned away and made for the door. "If you're headed to Chalmun's then take that blaster off the stun setting. They'll find it insulting."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Owen piloted the Whitesuns' V-35 Courier out into the wastes of Mos Eisley, the trashy Kerner district that tended to spoil the reputation of the otherwise average port city. Such a pity that the violent scum of a few blocks worth of establishments had to scare the wealthy tourists and tradesmen away to Mos Espa, and doom all that lay eastward to the more unscrupulous types.

The lot in back of the seedy-looking Chalmun's held in it a variety of custom speeders that put the boxy V-35 to shame. Strange characters eyed Owen with interest as he parked, and the farmer couldn't help but feel that there was a target painted on his back for all the pickpockets and con-men to hone in on. He slammed the door to the speeder and walked into the cantina, passing a pair of many-limbed aliens copulating upon the hood of their vehicle.

It was fortunate Owen had more than one glass of brandy in him, because in the morning all of this was going to seem dangerous and stupid.

"What can I get for you?" said the bar tender as Owen approached the counter. He was a bit surprised to see she was a fairly attractive-looking female human near his own age. She seemed horribly out of place in this rough and gritty cantina. Owen felt a stupid urge, tinged with masculine bravado, to whisk her away to a place more befitting, but then it was gone.

"Boba Fett. Where can I find him?" Owen asked, feigning a toughness, attempting to recall those days in his late teens when he'd bought and sold spice at establishments such as these. He needed that confidence again. The barmaid gave a small sigh and then began to scan the customers. Her eyes lingered for a moment on a booth in the back and she gave a nod toward it. A number of guests were situated around a sabaac table, the bounty hunter in question among them.

Owen ordered a drink, and prepared to wait for the game's end.

.o.o.o.o.o.

From his seat facing the cantina's entrance, Boba was made aware of every entry and exit into the building. It was his paranoia, developed over years of sitting in these rank spaceport bars, that caused him to like to see just who was coming and going at all times, especially if he planned on becoming intoxicated, and especially if he was to have his attention split by something like sabaac.

It must have happened during one of those moments when he'd looked down at his cards, for he was three games in and five thousand credits in the hole by the time he discovered that he was being watched from across the cantina by someone who's entrance he'd failed to notice.

A chill crawled up his spine when he zeroed in on the farmer. That same damn farmer with his mysteries and his Jedi connections that had never been far from Boba's musings since their first, peculiar interaction. That he was here, and intently focused upon this sabaac game, could mean no good thing. The silent chase was over. The prey had realized that he was being stalked.

So why did Boba, in this instance, not feel very hunter-like? Why did it give him the urge to shudder when he felt those eyes on him? Why did his palms begin to sweat? Why was a simple farmer suddenly cause for alarm?

Because he knew. And he knew that Boba knew.

A quarter hour later, Greedo was sweeping his winnings toward himself.

" _You should join us at the sabaac table more often, Fett_ ," he spoke in singsong Huttese, now neatly stacking his pile of chips.

"Keep those warm for me. I'll be wanting them back," Boba answered in Basic, somewhat more subdued than normal. He couldn't bring himself to care about the outcome of the game when there was a hole being burned into the back of his head by a pair of shrewd eyes. The other players stood and left in quick succession, and Boba was last to return to the counter to exchange his greatly dwindled amount of chips.

He felt the farmer behind him long before he turned to look at him. The way he stood, with his legs apart and hand placed casually in the folds of his cloak, was all the tip-off Boba needed to realize that the man had actually brought a blaster with him. Simply ignoring him could quickly turn lethal, especially if Lars' taste in pistols was as disgustingly excessive as his taste in riffles. Many a fight had been decided by luck and superior firepower, skill made irrelevant. And this farmer was _damned_ lucky.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, farmer," the hunter said lightly, before the other could speak. By Jabba's fat arse, Boba vowed he would keep the upper hand in this trade.

"Why don't you join me at my table, bounty hunter? I think we have things to discuss," the farmer replied. Boba Fett closed his eyes, now knowing for certain that there was no good way to avoid this confrontation. He followed the farmer back to the other side of the bar, where a sheltered booth just off to the side of the door awaited them. They slid into it easily as if they were about to talk business.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" Lars began, and Boba's ire grew. He didn't reply, for it would have felt like a capitulation, no matter how small. Besides, his stony silences often made a great intimidation tool. Lars slowly worked a colored stick free of its package and took a long moment to light it, as if he had all the time in the world and Boba had nothing better to do than wait on his pleasure. Finally, he spoke again, "Personally, I hate having to dance around the issue, so I'll be blunt. What's your game?"

"No game," Boba replied vaguely, "only a passing curiosity."

"I ain't a goddamn simpleton, Mr. Fett. That's your name right? Understand here, when I find that a character such as yourself has taken an interest in my humble affairs, it don't sit well with me."

"You ought to be grateful I think," Boba said, not taking kindly to Lars' insinuation of his 'character'. "I've kept Vader off your back this long, and spared you from the Inquisition besides. In fact, you may as well assume that your life from this point on depends entirely on my own good will. It would be a shame to offend me." Lars blinked, surprised maybe that Boba had been so forthcoming. Slowly the farmer drew the stick away from his mouth and for a second, everything between them was obscured by a cloud of smoke.

"How much do you know?"

"Everything, naturally," the hunter answered shortly.

"Oh I very much doubt that," Lars returned with narrowed eyes. The farmer studied him for a long while, assessing and calculating. How could he remain so calm in this situation? The hunter wondered, not for the first time, if the man before him really was just a farmer. Perhaps he was some sort of rebel agent or a wanted criminal in deep cover.

"What do you want from me?" the farmer continued, finally displaying a hint of vulnerability. Boba knew he could seize upon this chance. He could demand money for his continued silence. He could demand that the Jedi child be turned over to him so that he could claim any rewards for himself.

Strangely, both of those options left a bad taste in his mouth. The farmer had nothing. Boba himself had watched all that he'd owned go up in flames, and as for this child that everything seemed to revolve around, there was no thrill for Boba in soft targets.

"Go back to your farm and live out your simple life. It would be better for all of us." This ought to have been the end of the conversation. Boba ought to have gotten up then and left the farmer to finish his lonely spice stick in the fragile peace of Chalmun's, yet they both remained seated.

"I'd like to hire you, hunter," the farmer said after a long drag. Boba was momentarily stunned. Of all the things he'd expected the man to say next, a job offer had not been among them.

"You have no money and I don't work for free," Boba felt he needed to point out the obvious.

"You're so sure of that?" Lars replied, and he fished a datapad from his tunic. It displayed the credit balance of an account, presumably the man's own. The figure was twenty thousand. Boba knew immediately that this was not the farmer's money, baring the chance that a relative had recently died and left it to him, he had most likely taken a loan from one of Jabba's sharks. It was a terribly risky thing for a man in Lars' position to do, as he could have no other collateral but his own life. Whatever job he wanted done, it was quite serious. Deadly serious, in fact.

"I'm listening," Boba said after a fashion. It seemed this man would continue to surprise him.

"I need a message delivered."

"Then you need a mail service, not a bounty hunter. It is much cheaper," Boba quipped with a pointed glance at the balance on the datapad.

"How bout you hear me out? Then you can make all the wise-cracks you want," the farmer was not amused. "I need a message delivered. I can't go though official channels. It's too sensitive to put in text or on paper, the type of thing that could get a man killed."

Boba had leaned in casually, eager to hear more, though trying not to show it. He knew already he would take the job, but he couldn't let the client know he was so very interested.

"Who is the recipient?"

"Darth Vader."

Again, Boba was shocked into momentary silence. It was puzzling to think that after all the effort this farmer had gone through to keep the Empire away from his farm, he now wished to contact the man who, arguably, was the reason he had to hide the Jedi boy in the first place. Only one explanation made sense. Was Lars so desperate that he'd sell the child to Vader for a pretty few credits? This _was_ Tatooine, after all...

 _I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence._

"What makes you think Vader will want to hear anything you have to say?" Boba asked. The other man scowled deeply, as if the idea of Lord Vader, heir to the Empire, not taking a message from an outer rim farmer seriously was some grievous offense. He flicked the spice stick and a few, glowing cinders fell onto the drink-stained surface of the table.

"If he doesn't want to hear my message, then that will be an answer in itself. But I reckon he'll hear it, and then I reckon he'll come to Tatooine to hear more," the farmer growled. "Now, will you take the job, bounty hunter, or not?"

The man was utterly mad, Boba decided, but who was he to judge? He, who couldn't seem to pull his hand from the flame, who couldn't seem to stop picking this scab even though he knew he was only making it worse. There was a triangle in his mind now. Lars at one corner, Vader at another, and top and center was the late Jedi, Skywalker. Somehow all three men had become entangled, and Boba was dying to figure out the how and why. He relaxed back into his seat and tapped Lars' datapad thoughtfully.

"Twenty thousand will get you a com frequency. If you wanted me to do the talking, you'd have to double the amount."

"I could buy such a com frequency off the black market for a fraction of what I'm offering you," Lars scoffed. "What proof would I have that it would work or that any old nerf off the street might not listen in? I don't mind doing the talking, bounty hunter, so long as you can get me a secure channel. NMX encryption. None of the CiVoice bantha shit."

Truly top secret. Ah but he drove a hard bargain. A backwater planet like Tatooine surely only used the older systems. He would have to allow the farmer to make his call from Slave I in order to comply with these demands. But all else aside, if he refused this and then found out Dengar or Greedo had made a quick twenty thousand credits on a com to Vader, he'd have to slap himself.

This farmer belonged to Boba in the most bizarre of ways; he was a part of this hunt, and Boba could not in good faith give him up to another, lesser hunter. No, he must follow this story to its conclusion, which was looking now to have an ending with a signature Vader asphyxiation.

He'd trained himself nearly his whole life never to have sympathy for either client or target. They were jobs, they were money, and the moment he allowed such things to become personal, he could no longer call himself a bounty hunter.

It was indeed a pity- that poor, Jedi kid. Such a shame to be condemned just because of his blood. Boba could relate, in a way. But this was business, and he needed to eat...

...at the finest restaurants. He needed to upgrade Slave I's laser cannons. And he needed to visit that whore on Zolan again. The good life wasn't cheap.

He fixed the farmer under his helmeted gaze, watching as the other man sat back in the booth and ground the end of his spice stick into the tabletop, where dozens of other guests had done the same, judging from the various, circular burns in the duraplast.

"You've got yourself a deal, farmer. Tomorrow at dusk. Meet me in docking bay 32."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The stars coming out from the dying torch of the second twilight glittered overhead by the time Owen Lars found the docking bay he was meant to visit. The massive, duracrete chamber was dark, with only the shadowy silhouette of a rather small spacecraft in the center. He looked to the ceiling, at the door to the docking bay that would spiral open to allow passage, but it remained shut tight to the sky beyond.

His footsteps echoed in the bay as he drew nearer, and in response to the movement, the lights flickered on. He studied the spacecraft in front of him, recognizing it as an older Firespray model that had been greatly customized over the years. Was this the bounty hunter's ship? He must have been brought here to make the call over the ship's com.

Owen glanced back toward the bay's entrance, where there was still no sign of Mandalorian armor. To busy himself, he took a closer look at the intriguing ship. His day job had him repairing freighters mostly, with Hutt yachts occasionally making the list, but rarely did he manage to put his hands on an attack craft such as this.

He noticed a patch on the wing he stood nearest to, and he ran his fingers over the poor welding job. Perhaps Fett had done it himself in a pinch, without access to the proper tools. Owen smiled to himself, wondering how he could have allowed his mind to wander to a matter so trivial in comparison to why he now stood here.

"Hands off, farmer." The hunter had arrived. Owen did not immediately turn to him.

"You do a lot of atmospheric flying," Owen commented, "Far more than this craft was designed for."

"My profession often involves chasing scum back to their planetside hidey holes," Fett replied, and Owen thought he might have heard a hint of amusement. "Now lets get this over with. I've got an appointment to keep on Ithor in twenty standard hours."

They ascended the ship's ramp and slid through the tight corridor that led to the cockpit. Fett directed him to the pilot's chair, directly below the holoprojector. The hunter took the navigator's seat. Owen glared as the other man settled in.

"This is a private matter. I agreed to do the talking myself, and I'll do it alone, hunter."

"This is my ship, farmer. And you have yet to transfer those credits. I will remain out of the holo's view, but if I sense this call taking a bad turn, I reserve the right to terminate it. Vader has been known to choke those who displease him over the holocom."

Owen ignored the sudden stab of apprehension, and shoved away the image of his own, cold body lying upon the ship's metal floor. He grumbled under his breath, already working out how he would have to alter all that he'd planned to say. No longer would he be able to reveal the whole truth. Not with Fett remaining in the cockpit. Stupid man. Did he not yet realize that he was better off never hearing this information? That if Vader discovered this call's origin and Fett was discovered to know too much there was no guarantee of his life?

"Will he know I acquired this frequency from you?" Owen wondered out loud.

"I have it on good authority that he uses this frequency for several of his bounty hunters and personal agents," Fett replied with that same hint of amusement. Then he leveled the blaster he held in his lap at Owen. "It would be in your best interest not to mention how you acquired it." The man then turned his helmeted head to the console and keyed in the numbers.

Owen held his breath as the tone sounded. He realized suddenly that he wasn't ready, but it was too late now. The series of beeps indicated he'd been placed on hold and that the com was undergoing a series of transfers. They began to wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

"Give it time," Fett quipped when he noticed the farmer's frustration, "You've never seen a star destroyer before have you, Lars? Let me inform you that they are very large. And Vader is a busy man."

Owen was about to snap something in return to indicate that he did not appreciate being patronized in such a manner when the call finally connected and the blue figure of Darth Vader materialized in miniature above the pilot's console. For a moment, a horrible, dreadful moment, the only sound in the cockpit was the electronic rendition of a respirator forcing its host to inhale and exhale rhythmically.

 _You're way outta your depth, Lars_ , Owen found himself thinking again, realizing it had become his mantra as of late.

"Vader," he said when he finally found his voice. There was another tense moment while he waited for a response. Perhaps there would be none. Perhaps Vader would simply end the call without saying anything. Was Owen supposed to speak something more? Or should he wait to be addressed? The horrible thought struck him that perhaps under that mask was an utter stranger and all that he'd been told thus far had been a lie.

"How did you obtain this frequency?" was the sudden, booming question, full of anger and authority. He'd not spoken his name, though Owen imagined that the pause had been too long. The suited man had been caught off-guard.

"I purchased it. Cost me all that I was worth," Owen answered.

"Then the agent that sold it to you priced it far too cheap, and when I find him I shall teach him the extent of his folly," Vader cut in swiftly with the first blow, and it made both Owen and the listening bounty hunter flinch. "We have nothing to speak on, moisture farmer. It is time I demonstrate to you your own utter insignificance."

For a moment, Owen had a strange desire to laugh in relief. He had not heard so much the words Vader had spoken, rather than their tone. It was familiar. It brought back the memories of his visit. It was proof that under that mask was the same man. The same man Owen had watched crying over his mother's grave. The thought made the situation a whole lot less intimidating.

"Then consider this a request from a brother."

"You have no claim to that title," Vader spat, "I shall inform you, Lars, for the first and last time, that the Jedi Knight, Anakin Skywalker, is long dead."

Owen would have scowled his frustration if he were not so tense, for these were the exact words he'd not wanted to hear. Kenobi had said them himself and Owen had always viewed them as the crux of the lie Had this all been a waste of time and effort? If Vader persisted in this delusion that Anakin Skywalker was dead then where did it leave Luke? Somehow Owen would have to probe further, because he couldn't just accept it after he'd come this far. The next words left his mouth a test, and he did not think much on how deep they might cut.

"Shmi never needed a son like you in the first place."

It was instant, the way he was lifted from the pilot's chair by a strange force. An invisible grip closed around his throat and panic bubbled nauseatingly in his stomach.

"I will enjoy ending you, Lars," Owen heard Vader snarl. Out of the corner of his vision, he watched the bounty hunter's finger hover over the button that would end the call. He had only mere seconds to fix this.

"You insult her memory... by refusing to acknowledge us," Owen managed to choke, aware that he had a limited amount of breath to expend, one chance to get his point across and save his life, "And if you kill me... you'll never learn... Kenobi's... last... secret."

He was released suddenly, and he landed bonelessly in the chair once again. He struggled to remain upright and conscious as he drew in the breath that had been denied to him. He'd squander it all if he fainted now.

"Speak, Lars, or were those words just a bluff to save your own worthless hide?" Vader said impatiently. It was another minute before Owen was able to compose himself enough to cough out an answer. The display of power had humbled him a bit, but unbeknownst to Vader, a point had been proven.

Owen Lars might be utterly insignificant, but apparently, Shmi Skywalker was not. The farmer massaged his throat, as if he might brush off the last vestige of those invisible fingers.

"You're a big man now. I get it," Owen panted, "Maybe you don't got time for the likes of us, down in the dust. If that's the case, then maybe I should never have made this call. The simple truth of the matter is that something of yours was left on my farm ten years ago. It's not something I can say over the com," and here, Owen had to force his eyes not to flicker over to where the bounty hunter sat, "You wouldn't believe me anyway. I'll have to show it to you in person. You'll understand everything when I do."

"You do not get to make demands of me, farmer. Whatever treason it is you've committed will soon be made apparent when my stormtroopers arrive at your sorry hut and drag you from it."

"Then I hope, for your sake, that you trust those men with your life," Owen remarked, his tone turning vicious. Yet anger would not help. "What I have here with me could be a powerful weapon in the right hands, something that your enemies wouldn't hesitate to use against you," Owen paused for a moment, thinking of Organa and knowing he had to amend that statement, "Already they plot to use it against you, and had not Kenobi entrusted it to me, it would now be under their influence."

Vader was silent as his suit allowed. Several cycles of his respirator passed uninterrupted. Surely he was curious now, curious as to this 'weapon' and curious as to why Owen had not already used it or sold it to said 'enemies.'

Owen realized that he'd gotten his message through, and that any further arguments might only hinder him. It was time to end this call lest he find himself gagging upon air again. Let Vader pull what he would from the conversation in his leisure.

"One standard week from today. Shmi's gravesite. I'll be waiting," Owen told the other man. He did not hold out for any reply, not that he thought he'd receive one. Instead he cut the call himself, letting the blue form in front of him wink out of existence. Instantly, Owen was aware of his surroundings in a way that made him feel terribly enclosed. There were steel ship walls all around him. How could anyone breathe in here?

The deed was done and he could not take it back. Owen could not know how the situation would resolve itself in the end. Might he have just doomed the galaxy? Kenobi would certainly think so, were he not dead or in a cell somewhere. Things were in motion now, and no force in the universe could put a stop to them.

When he rose to his feet, he nearly toppled to the floor due to the trembling in his legs, but managed to steady himself by catching the back of the chair. The bounty hunter sat rather limp in his seat, blaster now in only a loose grip and pointing at the ground. Owen fished the chip containing the promised credits from his robes and placed it upon the navigator's console. The other man made no move to take it. Owen collected himself enough to walk to the cockpit's exit, but with his hand upon the door release, he paused and scraped together what remained of his dignity.

"This concludes our business, hunter. From now on you'll keep your nose out of my family's affairs, if you know what's good for you."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Boba fired a shot into the pitch blackness, felling the single Tusken that had used the pre-dawn dark to creep up upon the property. The creature crumpled after letting out a pitiful noise. Boba shot it again to ensure its death. Such a useless endeavor. The farm had been completely consumed in that blaze a month previous. There remained nothing to loot anymore.

 _How could you have been so dense, Fett?_ The bounty hunter chided himself as he circled around the dome to the tombstone. The thermal imaging mode in his helmet showed no more nearby lifeforms so he switched it off.

All along in his mind had been a triangle, and he'd never once considered that two of the three men involved in this intrigue might, in fact, be the same person.

Why Vader had cast off his Jedi brothers (turned on them outright and stabbed them in the backs, if some accounts were to be believed) and why he had taken on a new name and built a new identity was a mystery that Boba could not divine, nor had any interest in attempting to unravel. His curiosity had at last been sated, and now all that remained was to see the performance to its conclusion.

Boba looked to the second tombstone that sat just next to Shmi Skywalker's and the image enhancement told the hunter that the it read Cliegg Lars. The two graves were close enough that these two surely had been lovers before their deaths, tentatively linking together the lives of their Jedi and farmer sons. It was all just so simple and impossible.

The child that everyone seemed to want to get their hands on was no mere child. All the facts pointed to that child being the son of Darth Vader. The boy was a veritable prince, perhaps even heir to the Empire itself!

But Vader did not yet know, and all these years Lars had played the role of guardian and secret-keeper, fending off the vultures and toying with the idea of revealing the child to his father. The moment of clarity and empathy left Boba nauseated. He was forced to remind himself that he didn't actually care about any of this, he had only peeked into the window of someone else's life.

The child's worth was staggering. It was possible that the single most valuable item Boba might ever lay eyes on would take the form of a human child. But. If. Maybe. First, Lars had the difficult task of getting Vader to acknowledge the boy. Until then, he was worth nothing.

Today marked the happy family reunion, and Boba felt that he'd earned a ticket to the show.

Boba settled in a ditch a good quarter mile west of the farmstead. At his back was the rise of the Wastes, and the purview before him was the flat expanse of desert in all directions. Only the small, ruined structures of Lars' home and his vaporators broke up the landscape. His riffle rested against the wall of the ditch, ready to be put to use at a moment's notice. What he expected to happen, and more importantly, why he thought he might need to shoot something remained obscure.

Opportunities could yet be pulled from this. If Vader showed up alone, as Lars surely wished, it would likely be the only chance Boba would ever get to engage the Sith Lord on even terms. Vader had a number of massive bounties on his head within black market circles, and even the cheapest of them was enough to allow Boba an early retirement.

But a duel with Vader meant win or die, and Boba was quite certain he couldn't win without a few dirty tricks. No, perhaps the smarter thing to do would be to step in and take the boy for himself. Auction him off to the highest bidder. Certain powerful individuals might pay almost anything to get their hands on such a child, regardless if he'd been claimed by his father or not.

Why did it all seem so wretched? Such had never been a problem before. Jobs and money. Money and jobs. And by all standards, this particular job had concluded a week ago with that com call.

An image of Jango appeared in his mind's eye, affectionate smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The soft patter of Kamino's rains sounded in the background. It was part of a memory Boba had enshrined, one of those quintessential parts of himself that colored his every action. The love of a father was a powerful thing.

That Jedi kid had a chance at it. A chance to know a father. A chance to not grow up jaded and alone and with a hole in his heart.

Boba sighed. When had this sentimental streak taken hold? Perhaps he'd spent too long under Tatooine's twin suns if this was what he'd been reduced to.

It was first dawn when Lars pulled up to the farm in his ratty Courier. He'd come alone, without the boy. Boba had to wonder at that, for was not the purpose of this meeting to unveil the child? Maybe Lars preferred to see what he was up against before he revealed his Array. Lars settled against the shady side of his vehicle, gazing blankly out over his ruined farm. Eventually, he lit a spice stick with shaking hands.

Dust. Ash. Nothing. A man's life reduced to burnt sand and broken heaps of machinery. Would Vader even care to show his hide? If not, what did Lars have left?

The wind was tasteless and moistureless, but every once in a while, a forceful breeze would comb rough fingers over the dunes and Boba would catch a hint of spice in the air, drifting over from where the farmer stood. It was sweet and piquant. Time passed and the suns warmed the parched sand and rock, forcing Boba to shift his position in order to keep within the gulch's shadow.

An Imperial transport pulled up after second dawn, and Boba considered it strange that the vehicle was old and worn by sand. It had come from somewhere upon the planet, rather than from the hanger of a Star Destroyer. A single trooper exited the transport. Lars threw down his spice stick, clearly irritated at being snubbed by Darth Vader.

" _Then consider this a request from a brother."_

" _You have no claim to that title."_

Still, how much influence did one gain by having such a connection to the Emperor's Enforcer? It had been enough for Boba to give him a wide berth. Lars and the trooper were exchanging words, and Boba tuned his helmet's listening device onto their conversation. The interference from the wind made capturing the sound impossible, and Boba only caught singular words here and there.

The exchange quickly grew heated and when the trooper pulled his blaster on the farmer, Lars responded in kind with an older D-17. It was then that more troopers spilled from the transport. They moved to surround Lars, and Boba couldn't help but notice that they were quite out of sync. They didn't move like men who'd trained together. This was not normal, Imperial procedure, and Boba was well-acquainted with Imperial procedure.

Lars was looking alarmed now. They barreled him to the ground and wrested his blaster from his grip before pinning his hands behind his back and encasing them in binders. They loaded him into the transport, and Lars' inventive cusses were picked up through the listening device. More than anger, there was fear in the farmer's tone. It didn't sit right with Boba, for all that he'd learned about the man, this farmer had proved no cowardice.

Why would Lars struggle when he'd surely realized that this had been a likely course of action for Vader to take? The Dark Lord of the Sith did not negotiate, he did not bargain, he simply took.

Yet something was wrong here, but the bounty hunter could not put his finger on what exactly. Many things were simply not adding up. The dust rimmed transport. The worn trooper armor. Lars' frantic expletives.

An idea of what might have just happened occurred to Boba then. A complication, unlikely but not impossible. There had been numerous opportunities... perhaps at Chalmun's, perhaps in the ship hanger, but an individual would have had to have known what to look for...

Was it possible that these troopers had not been sent by Vader at all?

Boba immediately became enthralled with the idea, and with all the new opportunities it could afford him were it true. Meanwhile, the transport ignited its engines and turned its nose not toward the direction it came, but westward to the endless desert.

"Hold fast, you damn fool farmer," Boba muttered as the vehicle thundered past his gulch. He pulled out his comlink. There were suddenly favors needing to be called in.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Vader looked back upon the _Vindicator_ just as the two shuttle pilots made the last of their preparations for the hyperspace jump. Leaving the behemoth to sit idle just outside Bothan space whilst he undertook this side mission to Tatooine felt a form of neglect. He'd not told his admiral the purpose of his excursion, rather, when the question had been raised, the dark lord had responded with the cryptic:

" _A minor inconvenience that I shall be dealing with personally. You will not concern yourself with it."_

Perhaps the force persuasion had been intentional. How else might he explain that wished to investigate the claim of a single moisture farmer?

Whatever was to happen on Tatooine, Vader knew he would put the ghost of Anakin Skywalker to rest once and for all. It was a task that needed to be seen to, but one that he had avoided for so long.

Palpatine would be proud, at such time he saw fit to report this to his master.

The shuttle made the jump, the force of it causing Vader to rock back slightly in his stance. When there remained no further acceleration and the swirling lights of hyperspace filled the viewscreen, one of the pilots spoke.

"We will revert to realspace in approximately 5 hours, My Lord."

"These are the codes you are to transmit when we arrive in the Tatoo system, lieutenant," Vader presented a datachip to the co-pilot. "You are now a cargo shuttle bound for the Imperial docking bay in Mos Eisley. When you hit atmosphere, your coolant system will suffer a catastrophic failure, forcing you to land at the surface coordinates that I've already inputted. Do not disappoint me, lieutenant."

"Yes, My Lord."

Vader turned to exit the cockpit. Whether such a charade was necessary remained to be seen, but the fact was that his presence upon the planet had to remain unknown, or else he was at risk of inciting a skirmish between the Empire and the Hutt Clan. He could not have brought an army with him, yet he could not go alone. He would not bow to a farmer's wishes and present himself a target for outlaw gangs, for this was so obviously a trap. So obvious indeed that it could not be one.

Lars had been genuine during that call. And the Force, in all her ethereal wisdom, seemed to whisper in his ear, daring him to investigate the anomaly that lay hidden upon that forsaken rock of a planet.

As Vader swept through the passenger hold, he eyed the three officers he'd handpicked to accompany him. Captains, all of them, and a motley crew at that. CT-6116, of the med corps. CT-5597, an ARC Trooper. CT-21-0408, also an ARC trooper. If they were to take off their helmets, their solemn, identical faces would appear lined and grizzled, with retirement long overdue.

Yet like a child who'd outgrown his favorite toys but could not bear to part with them, Vader held fast to these men in his 501st. They'd been with him since the beginning, since Anakin Skywalker had been made a general in the GAR. Everything had changed, but nothing had changed, and it had not escaped the notice of these lone troopers that their general had never left them.

And so taking them to Tatooine would pose no risk.

They knew why they were here, and it was nothing to do with their ranks or various specialties. They did not speak to one another, and a strange sadness permeated the shuttle's recycled air.

Vader did not linger in the hold with them, could not. Not while such memories were being broadcast. Wistful flashbacks to times of old when they were all younger, happier men. Things had been so much simpler with the war always the first concern, before they all had become relics of a bygone era and the galaxy had moved on without them. They reminded Vader of how a part of him, a part that he had willingly buried, was slowly wasting away with each new, agonizing day.

He shut himself in the rear quarters and spent the remaining hours in meditation. They made a smooth landing upon the surface of Tatooine, and when Vader watched as the ramp lowered onto the same reddish dust of his nightmares, a certain foreboding filled him.

The landscape was a blackened husk of what once had been. Structures, vaporators and equipment alike, were either ash or melted by an intense inferno. Staring at such skeletons in the charred sand, Vader fought to reconcile the image before him with what remained of this place in his memories.

A clay dome, a modest little abode with a charming interior, populated by a few, hardworking sentients. As he moved toward the house, his mind was led astray, the chrono ticking back the years. He imagined he was here to find answers about his mother and those terrible dreams. This time, he would be quicker, he would fight harder, he would find a way to save her. He would find a way to save them all.

Vader paused and spoke to the three troopers in his wake without turning to them.

"Jesse, Kix, Echo," and for a startling moment, he could not determine why those names sounded so wrong. Then, he realized that he'd never spoken them through the vocoder before now. The last time those names had been said aloud it had been in the voice of Anakin Skywalker. He berated himself for becoming so lost in thought that he'd slipped back into his former self. Vader was not the only one caught off guard by the use of such long-unspoken designations. Surprise emanated from the three men behind him before turning to sorrow. Vicious sorrow.

"Sir!" they came to attention.

"Search the wreckage. I wish to know how the moisture farm came to be in this state."

"Yessir!" They broke apart, setting vectors in all different directions. Vader, himself, ducked inside the dome, leaving prints in the ash upon the stairs as he descended. He let his gloved fingers trail upon the wall and allowed the Force to momentarily consume him. It showed him visions, mostly of a fair-haired child playing in the sand whilst two suns burned overhead. Phantom laughter echoed through the soot-filled halls, leading Vader to the door of a small room. He stooped to retrieve a piece of debris upon the ground. It was a toy starship. No, an airspeeder. T-16. It had belonged to the son of Owen Lars, he supposed.

When Vader surfaced once again, he realized he had taken the small toy with him. CT-6116 approached.

"Sir, the carbon scoring analysis dates the fire that destroyed this farm at several weeks prior. I have also located a few, irregular burns that indicate the use of a type of ion weapon. In, addition, _this_ was recovered over near that ruined vaporator." The clone trooper held out a piece of curved metal to Vader and immediately the Sith took it in hand, knowing exactly where it came from. It had once been part of an Inquisitor's lightsaber.

His wild speculations were abruptly cut off when the other two clone troopers arrived escorting an individual in very distinctive, Mandalorian armor. His hands were in the air in a gesture of calm surrender, but the Force belied his true apprehension. Once surrounded, Boba Fett reached up and removed his helmet. It was a calculated move, for he knew that clones hesitated when faced with shooting one of their own. It did not stop them from raising their blasters in alarm, however.

"State your number, deserter," CT-5597 growled, but Vader held up a hand to silence him, still staring down the bounty hunter.

"So it was you who gave the farmer the means to contact me. I find it difficult to believe, Fett, that a man with a more than moderate level of intelligence would willfully disobey an order I once gave him."

"Forgive me, my lord," the bounty hunter said, though with none of the pleading desperation that usually tainted those words. Instead there were hints of amusement and defiance. "The farmer approached me, unbidden. Once I discovered the significance of the... item... he wished to bargain you with, I determined that it should be brought to your attention." Vader probed the confession for a lie. Indeed there was a lie, but it was expertly hidden among truths. Just how many people knew of this supposed 'weapon'? But there was something else pressing on his mind.

"Where is Lars now?" Fett would have to know such information, or he wouldn't have been stupid enough to show his face.

"He was taken from here by a group of mercenaries posing as Imperial stormtroopers," Fett obliged, "They are holding him in a sandstorm bunker twenty miles into the Wastes."

"And the 'item'?" Vader demanded.

"It has been moved to a secure location."

Vader took a moment to consider the choice laid before him. Go after Lars? Or go after this so-called weapon? What did the farmer's life matter so long as Vader retrieved what he was after; this last will and testament of Obi-wan Kenobi? However, if Vader did not get hold of the farmer himself, there could remain questions unanswered, such as the all-to-prevalent 'how' and 'why".

 _Leave Owen Lars to his fate and you squander the chance to atone for past wrongs, Anakin._ Why did the Force have to speak it in Kenobi's scolding, holier-than-thou voice?

 _You would condemn him to die out in the desert just like you did your mother?_ This time it was Padme, incredulous and indignant. _Why have you come here, Ani, if not for this?_

"You shall lead us to this sandstorm bunker immediately, Fett," Vader decided. If this was some sort of elaborate trap, he would spring it. He would uncover the identities of those who plotted against him and his Empire and he would slaughter them without a hint of mercy.

.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: While it is true that Echo dies during one episode of Clone Wars, those of you that took the time to watch the unfinished story reels for "bad batch" will know that he actually comes back. Such a shame those episodes were never finished. Disney, I will never forgive you!


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I was hoping to give you two chapters, but i was in the process of moving across the country, so writing got put on hold temporarily.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Chapter 12

The wind rattled a hatch upon the ceiling. It took Owen a while to discover what the noise meant, for he could see nothing from under the bag they had placed over his head. The hatch was indicative of an underground sandstorm shelter. There were quite a few of them placed throughout the rim of the Jundland Wastes, utilized mostly by hunters and trappers that would use them as base camps before venturing into the Western Dune Sea.

"Have you secured the woman and the boy?" one of his captors was speaking, probably into a comlink. Silence while words were spoken on the other end. "For stars' sake, the woman is in a coma! She couldn't have just walked off. Search the town. They could not have gone far."

The bag was abruptly pulled from Owen's face. He found himself staring at the man who still wore the stolen trooper helmet. Up this close, Owen could see the blaster burns on each temple where the original owner had been shot clean through the head. It was what had given him away the first time.

"Time to talk farmer," the impostor commanded, "Where have you hidden your wife and nephew?" His fellows, still lurking in the bunker's shadowy corners, shifted threateningly. Owen attempted to conceal his immense relief from showing upon his face. Luke and Beru somehow managed to evade these people. They were safe, by the work of some miracle that Owen had nothing to do with.

"I ain't talking to you," the farmer spat.

"Stubborn fool. We only want to bring them somewhere safe," the fake trooper replied. Owen tested his bonds and stared around at his current prison.

"You'll have a hard time trying to convince me of that."

"Then perhaps you will talk to someone more familiar," the armored man said, irritation clearly conveyed even through the helmet's filter. He placed a small holo projector on the floor between them. It lit up with the image of a human male in regal robes, a sympathetic expression upon his smooth face.

"Owen Lars," the holo greeted.

"Organa," the farmer grunted, "I have you to thank for all this, do I?" The blue holo flickered in the dim light, and Owen through he saw just a hint of shame cross the other man's face, but it was quickly replaced with a stony mask.

"Truly, I am sorry that it has come to this, friend. I did not think you would be foolish enough to make contact with Darth Vader. It seems, during our last encounter, that I completely misread your loyalties."

"I made clear that I'd never throw in with your lot," Owen growled, ignoring the implication that Organa had been spying on him. _Friend, indeed,_ the farmer thought, as he stared at the image with hardened eyes.

"You made clear you'd remain neutral in this conflict. I took it to mean you'd be taking Luke's identity to your grave, as Kenobi and I intended."

 _Aye, you intended for a lot of things. Had everything plotted out and now you can't stand to see it unravel._ Owen had the sense to bite his tongue on this errant musing.

"What can I say? War came to my doorstep," the farmer replied, taking cold pleasure in using Organa's own words from the last time they spoke.

"I made you a generous offer, Lars. If ever you were in need, I would have taken your family into my protection. I made a promise to a comrade, a promise to ensure the safety of the child born to Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala and make certain he would never fall under the influence of the Sith. I urge you to understand my position! We do not have to become opposed in this."

Owen shut his eyes, momentarily awash with guilt. He'd once made a similar promise to Kenobi. How ought he to explain his reasoning for the choice he'd made?

"Viceroy," the farmer began slowly, "I was a young man once, struggling to find purpose in my existence and burdened with a crippling spice addiction. My mother was dead, my father had become a useless drunk over the years. Now, I'm sure you don't give a jawa's ass about my life's story, but let me make my point. One day, my father brought a very wise slave woman into our home. She taught us never to turn our backs on family, no mater what they've done. You don't give up on them, you forgive them. Even if no one else will. So I don't expect you to understand, I don't expect you to agree with me, but this is something I have to do."

"A noble sentiment, certainly," Organa replied, his voice had softened considerably, "But you must realize that the fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance. Not only that, but the lives of you and your nephew as well. Would you gamble them away so easily?"

Owen averted his eyes from the holo and forced himself to consider the other angle. Perhaps Organa was right. Perhaps Luke would live a better life never knowing the truth about his sire. Perhaps Owen was selfish for believing he was acting in Luke's best interest.

"Padme was my... dearest friend," the Viceroy continued, quietly. "And that man is responsible for her death. He does not deserve forgiveness."

Owen envisioned himself joining Organa's little rebellion. He imagined a life in hiding and always on the run. He imagined battle scars, missing limbs, war orphans, and war widows. He imagined Luke as a fully trained Jedi like those who stood at the heads of armies during the height of the Clone Wars.

...trained specifically to murder his own father.

Could Vader, or even death, really be more a more terrible option than that?

It was then that Owen finally identified just what he found so despicable about Bail Organa. This man did not care about Luke. He did not care about Anakin Skywalker. He did not care about Owen and Beru Lars. His mind was ever-focused on a larger picture, a dream of a peaceful galaxy, a vague promise fulfilled to a dead woman. But he was trapped in the past, longing for a return of a toppled government, so fixated on the future and returning to the _then,_ that he had forgotten the _now_. Anakin Skywalker was not yet in a grave and therefore did not deserve to be written off or abandoned, or sacrificed to make way for Organa's ideal future.

Owen hung his head and said nothing to the other man. He'd made his decision long ago.

"I suppose we are at an impasse," Organa concluded after a long moment of silence. He allowed a tired smile to grace his well-sculpted face. "And that means I shall have to move forward with my plan regardless of your wishes, Mr. Lars." The blue holo representation of the man now turned to his hired muscle. "Sergeant. Do what you must."

"With pleasure, Your Highness."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Vader looked down upon the bunker hidden within the canyon, noticing the two figures standing guard near a steel trap-door upon the ground. If there were more, as Fett had said, they would likely be inside. They had not shed the Imperial armor they wore, perhaps hoping it would save them from any awkward questions should someone happen upon them. He retreated back into the alcove where his three officers still kept their blasters trained upon the bounty hunter.

There was an unidentifiable charge within the air. Excitement. Bloodlust. The three old troopers seemed to have been reinvigorated. It was as if ten years had fallen away and they were all in the thick of the war once again, about to undertake a high risk mission only the infamously reckless General Skywalker would think to sanction. Vader addressed them.

"The operation is the rescue of a moisture farmer by the name of Owen Lars. His captors' affiliations have not been identified as of this moment. Be advised that the enemy will be wearing standard issue stormtrooper armor. I want the commander alive for questioning. The rest are expendable." Vader then let his gaze fall upon Fett. "CT-6116 shall remain behind and guard the prisoner."

"I did all that you asked," Fett remarked bitterly.

"And now you shall become insurance," Vader replied.

"I make a better marksman," was the quick retort. Vader had no idea what made the hunter so bold in his presence. He assumed Vader would not harm him until he knew the whereabouts of Kenobi's secret, but he ought to realize that continued provocations were hardly in his best interest.

"You'll understand if my trust in you has been shaken, bounty hunter. Rest assured, you shall be granted another chance to beg for your life when this ordeal is at an end."

"Looking forward to it," the man muttered under his breath. It was the final straw for CT-6116.

"Permission to teach this bad egg a lesson, sir?" he snapped as he adopted an aggressive stance, holding his blaster as if he were ready to cuff the bounty hunter for his insolence.

"Leave him intact," Vader responded, deliberately vague. He was already turning away and unclipping his lightsaber from his belt. The two ARC troopers fell into formation at his sides and they began to descend the rocky slope that led down into the canyon, gravel shifting under their feet as they all but slid down the steep incline.

Once at the bottom, they made their grand entrance, not bothering with further cover. Darth Vader no longer had a need or a desire for stealth tactics, not when the dark side blanketed him in her immense power. They were nearly on top of the unfortunate peons guarding the hatch when they were finally noticed. Vader stepped in front of his men to deflect the plasma bolts as they continued to advance. The guards dove for cover just as the two clones were given the opportunities to take their first shots. Such cover would only buy them a short amount of time, for whilst Vader acted as a living shield, he and his men could remain mobile. Reaching the hatch, a few well-timed shots inflicted the first casualties upon the enemy, and the two ARC troopers rushed ahead with practiced, synchronized ease.

In quick succession the metal hatch was worked open. Vader calmly observed as CT-21-0408 threw the mangled door aside before stepping back to avoid the shots fired blindly up through the opening. CT-5597 primed a flash grenade.

"Ready when you are, sir," he said. Vader gave a small nod, impressed with both their efficiency and knowledge of his fighting style. He had to remind himself that, once upon a time, all his missions had gone this way. Once upon a time, all his men had known him so intimately. Oh, how the standards had fallen.

Vader did not hesitate to follow the blinding flare into the hole, landing gracefully upon the dirt floor. His lenses dampened the flash somewhat and he had a moment to watch as his enemies struggled to re-orient themselves. Blaster bolts began to ricochet off the walls when Vader raised his lightsaber once again. He was joined by his troopers after a short delay, and a brief period of close-quarter combat ensued. It was chaos. It was fear. Simple. Beautiful. Primal. And it made Vader forget the terrible monotony and loneliness of his current life, if only for a moment. It was not long before the bunker was littered with bodies, most dead but a few still moaning in agony.

His olfactory sensors registered the smell of ozone and melted plastasteel, singed flesh and sand.

"That's far enough." It was a man that spoke. He, like the rest, wore the standard trooper armor, only there were two massive burns to either side of the helmet. His blaster was pressed to the back of Lars' head, and he'd positioned the moisture farmer to stand as a shield before him. Lars' face was a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and relief.

"Who are you?" Vader asked the helmeted man, for he could not comprehend who in their right mind would have the gall to challenge him. The man laughed nervously.

"As an individual, I think you and I can agree that I am quite unimportant. What matters is that you were a fool to come here to come here to Tatooine, Vader. Mr, Lars, here, was kind enough to lay a trap for you and then bait it himself. I am only here to ensure the proper end result," the fake trooper said.

"Lying sack of bantha shit," Lars growled, "Release my hands and face me like a man." He was ignored.

"Now, Lord Vader," the enemy man spoke slowly and deliberately, with immense pleasure. It was the sort of tone of a lesser being suddenly believing he had the upper hand. "I will be the one sending you to your force-god in pieces." However, even the farmer went still when his captor produced a small, cylindrical object. A remote detonator of some sort, Vader could only assume. His lenses swept the room, but he could see no explosives, and he surely would have noticed anything of the sort rigged up just outside the bunker. Where was the threat?

"Die like the slave you are, Vader. Long live the republic." The mercinary had flipped open the cap and pressed the button before Vader even remembered the chip still set in his jaw, that tiny piece of metal and circuitry that had long been forgotten, filed away as part of the life of Anakin Skywalker.

Nothing happened. The mercenary tried again with a similar result, and his growing panic began to ooze into the Force. Unexpectedly, it was Lars who was first to chuckle.

"Seems you and your boss were the biggest fools to think I'd even armed that thing in the first place," the farmer said. Vader took the opportunity to call the object to his hand, and in the following seconds, CT-5579 and CT-21-0408 moved to apprehend the enemy.

In the struggle, the stolen trooper helmet fell to the floor, revealing dark hair and a young face. A child, almost, but Vader, of course, had no sympathy for terrorists.

"This is only the beginning," the young man rasped while he fought the grip of the two clones. "Soon, your Empire will be brought to its knees by the might of the oppressed people! We are the Rebellion and we will not be silenced!"

"We shall see about that," Vader rumbled darkly, "Take him away."

After the rope ladder was dropped and Vader's men hauled themselves and their new captive from the bunker, it remained only himself and Lars in the dark interior. Bodies still lay scattered upon the floor, but all was silent save for his own, mechanical respirations. He raised his hand and Lars's binders fell away.

"You have much to explain, farmer, but for now, you and your bounty hunter accomplice will take me to the location of the item you called me here for. You have wasted enough of my time." Vader turned, expecting the farmer to follow him to the bunker's exit.

"I'd like to trust you," Lars said slowly and quietly, as if he had not even registered the suited man's previous statement. "I'd like to believe Kenobi was wrong about you." At those words, Vader was forced to pause in his stride. He turned back to regard the farmer, who was still massaging his chaffed wrists. "Is it true," the man all but whispered, "that you murdered your wife?"

The question was like a Force punch to the gut. In that second, all of the demons lurking in the back of his mind burst forth, dragging with them those painful, long-suppressed memories. Rage, regret, guilt. Vader nearly staggered beneath the weight of them.

He lashed out with the Force in his anger, wrapping the farmer in the hungry tendrils of the Dark Side. How much did this man know of that day? How many lies had Kenobi been feeding him? Vader had no patience to coax the answers out through interrogation. Instead he mercilessly tore his way into the other man's mind and began to riffle through his thoughts. He glimpsed a haggard-looking Obi-Wan, the red glow of an Inquisitor's lightsaber, a farm on fire, but they all seemed to come back to that same, golden-haired child, and oddly enough, the memory of the boy acted as an impenetrable barrier that effectively halted Vader's advance.

The farmer collapsed against the bunker wall when Vader finally released him. It was unlikely the man realized what had just been done to him, but it had spooked him nonetheless.

"Kenobi was fond of speaking only truths that would suit him." Vader said. He felt the need to say more, to absolve himself in this farmer's eyes, for he could not allow Kenobi to turn yet another of his personal connections against him. "The Jedi and their righteous code stood between Padme and myself so I annihilated them. A Jedi could have no wife or family, but a Sith has no such restrictions. All that I've done, I've done for _her_ , yet due to Kenobi's vile ministrations, I lost everything regardless."

It was a long time that Lars sat there, half dazed perhaps. His eyes were focused upon the ground as he seemed to struggle with a decision. Eventually, Lars picked himself up off the dirt floor and shakily padded the dust from his tunic. There was a strange look of determination in his eyes now.

"Maybe not everything," the farmer grunted enigmatically. But he did not elaborate, instead pushing past Vader and reaching for the ladder.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I am going to post this one early, as it is the chapter that we have all been waiting for. First I will have a mini-rant that you can feel free to skip. I was ultra-inspired to write after seeing Rogue One, as it restored my hope that not all the new movies would be as utter dog-shit as TFA.

Rogue One had far superior writing and dialogue (things that, as a writer, I am ultra concerned about in movies. Sorry, its a crap movie if I feel I could write it better) not to mention better acting, and a real female lead as compared to the token female lead that Rey was.

As a super OT elitist, my boyfriend was super upset with the pun that Vader makes in one of his lines (something about 'choking' on aspirations). He was like "Vader doesn't make puns." Whereas I am very much a prequels and clone wars convert, I often find it very difficult to see any Anakin Skywalker in OT Vader. That little joke made by Vader, to me, was the most perfect thing! It bridged the gap, it showed me that there was still a hint of snarky Anakin in that mask, which is what I have been attempting to accomplish all along with this fic.

Sorry for the rant, I found it relevant. Hopefully you did too.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Chapter 13

"Cyanide pill, sir," concluded CT-6116 as he stepped back from the rebel's corpse. The three troopers, Fett, and now Lars and Vader stood at the base of the ramp leading into the Lambda shuttle. The hum of the engines indicated that that pilots had begun to prep it for take-off.

"Must have had it hidden in his teeth," commented CT-5597.

"Rebel scum," added CT-21-0408. Vader allowed a momentary flare of rage for this turn of events. He could take no pleasure in the torture or interrogation of a corpse, no doubt the last idea held by this ill-fated man. It seemed these anarchists would take their revenge however they could, even from beyond the grave. This day had become riddled with unnecessary complications, but the farmer had been retrieved, and that would have to suffice.

"It is of no consequence," Vader told his men, "Secure the body in the cargo hold." The three troopers offered him a quick salute and took their leave of him.

Vader stood alone with only the farmer and the bounty hunter. The lower of the two suns now hung heavy over the horizon, beginning to shift from the most blinding of golds into a fiery orange, signaling its nighttime descent. The surrounding air had cooled somewhat and Vader only knew this because the climate controls upon his suit were no longer straining against the heat.

"I thought I told you not to get involved," Lars growled, almost under his breath, reluctant to break the tense silence. It was a moment before Vader realized that the words were directed at Fett.

"I live on the edge," the hunter replied, unfazed, "Where would your family be now, if it weren't for me, farmer?" Lars stiffened in anger

"You play with fire in the desert!" the farmer scowled, taking a moment to hack a bit of sandy saliva onto the earth between them, perhaps in an expression of disgust.

"Silence," the simple command from Vader was enough to cow the two beings before him. "Take us to the weapon, Fett. There shall be no further delays," the Sith lord declared. He did not miss the uneasy look that passed between Lars and Fett.

"As you wish," the hunter acquiesced. Vader turned, cape swirling behind him in Tatooine's wind, and he ascended the ramp. He did not need to wait to see if the other two had followed. Hollow bootsteps upon metal let him know his order had been acknowledged. The ramp lifted.

In the cockpit, Fett gave new coordinates to Vader's pilots. Lars immediately became incensed.

"There?! You brought them there?!" the grisled man began hotly, leaning over the co-pilot's console to get a better look, much to the displeasure of the Imperial seated there. The lieutenant's eyes flicked to Vader for reassurance while he leaned stiffly and subtly away from the dust-coated moisture farmer. Vader gave none, for he was just as much in the dark for the time being.

"There's no safer place on Tatooine," the hunter assured.

"Stars! The last thing this situations needs is the attention of the Hutts! I told you this was to remain a private matter, goddamn it!"

Vader had been about to toss the farmer from the cockpit, unwilling to listen to him gripe for the duration of the journey, but now his attention was drawn to the coordinates, and to the region of Tatooine they suggested.

Fett intended to take them into the lair of Jabba the Hutt, and Vader found himself momentarily sympathetic to the farmer's anger. He had worked hard thus far to conduct this little operation under the radar of both the Empire and the Hutt Clan. This particular part of the plan was soon to be in shambles.

"Jabba indulges my whims. Even a... charity case such as this," Fett continued, oblivious to Vader's growing annoyance.

"At a price, no doubt," Vader cut in, his low rumble causing all others in the cockpit to flinch. Honestly, had they forgotten he was there? "Am I to understand, Fett, that Jabba the Hutt has been informed of my presence here on Tatooine?"

"He has, my lord."

Vader allowed a few, what were assuredly menacing, cycles of his respirator to pass uninterrupted.

"Then you might also inform his palace security, upon landing, that my visit is to remain unofficial. And then you might pray, bounty hunter, that I indeed find this precaution worthwhile and that my mood remains forgiving."

This silenced Fett for the remainder of the shuttle ride, much to everyone's benefit.

They set down upon a cracked duracrete slab that no-doubt was meant to serve as a landing pad. Vader had a set of vague apprehensions concerning the compound that loomed before him. Again, there were memories of the last time he'd visited this fortress, buried so long ago, and he could not stop them all from bursting from beyond the dam that held them. A young, Torgruta girl was forefront among them.

 _You're stuck with me, Sky-guy,_ her phantom voice whispered.

If this visit were to remain unofficial and unimposing, Vader knew he would have to leave his men behind, with only the farmer and the bounty hunter accompanying him. The massive, metal portcullis did not immediately grant them entrance. Instead a mechanical eye coiled out from a concealed hatch in order to inspect the trio with its lens.

"The Mighty Jabba wishes to welcome Lord Vader to his most opulent palace," came a robotic voice, rendered in Basic. The portcullis hitched upward, and Vader strode ahead of the others, determined to leave his dread, as well, outside with the shuttle.

The halls were eerily dark and empty, with none of the odd life forms loitering in the open enfilades. Even the hall leading into the pseudo dungeon and spice den where the Hutt held his audiences was silent and devoid of all its misfit creatures. It was disconcerting, for this was not the sort of welcome Vader had been expecting.

Fett guided them to the upper levels of the structure, where they crossed over into the smallest, domed obelisk. The rooms seemed to be guest apartments, though not quite equipped for human usage and decorated in the most horrendous of Hutt fashions.

Fett paused before an iron door.

"I think it best that I remain outside," the hunter said.

"Too right you will!" Lars snapped impatiently. The farmer had become increasingly fidgety throughout their walk. His fears and his hopes seeped into the force, but beyond them were also pride and stubbornness. As he laid a hand on the simply wrought door, he glanced to Vader once more, perhaps overtaken by a final moment of uncertainty.

"Don't think too terribly of me," the farmer said softly, "Kenobi didn't leave me with much of a choice."

Vader was struck by the odd sensation that whatever was beyond that door might just change his life completely.

The interior was nothing extraordinary, and the first thing the Sith lord noticed was the familiar rhythm of a mechanical respirator, and not his own. In the room's center, a woman, nearly unrecognizable from beneath burnt skin, was laid out upon a medicenter gurney and wired into a complex webbing of machinery. Life support systems fed into her body, hissing and beeping in their operations.

At the bedside, upon a chair with his legs pulled up to his chest, was a young, fair-headed child, perhaps no older than a decade. Lars stepped fully into the room, and at the sound, the boy's face lit up in recognition. He jumped up in order to greet the farmer.

"Uncle Owen!" the child cried. The brightness of it resounded in the Force with such strength that Vader had to keep from recoiling. He recognized immediately that this was the same child that had been plaguing his Force visions ever since he'd landed upon Tatooine and he now knew why.

The child was Force-sensitive. He was a threat. He needed to be terminated.

But that Force-signature was oh-so-familiar, the mirror image of his own, before he'd honed those raw powers. There were hints of something else, something calming, something that brought forth feelings of contentment and inner peace. _Her,_ Vader realized.

Out of desperation, Vader began to scour the room for something else, anything else that might prove to be the secret that Kenobi had hidden here with Lars upon this rock. In his mind, pieces of this puzzle were beginning to fit into place with alarming speed and he wished fervently that he might put a stop to it.

Vader felt it when the boy ceased his flurry of questions and finally noticed the stranger still lingering in the doorway. He leaned into Lars' taller frame, peaking around at Vader from behind dusty robes. The child feared him... just like everyone else. Vader was unprepared for the despair the flooded him. He'd never considered that the opinion of one small child could so utterly crush him.

"Impossible," said Vader harshly, attempting to give strength to the shield of denial he'd hastily erected in his mind.

"Kenobi didn't seem to think so. Neither did Bail Organa," Lars harrumphed, knowing what was going through the Sith lord's head. He turned to face Vader, bringing the boy to stand in front of him with the farmer's hands still firmly placed upon his small shoulders. Immediately, Vader reached out and cupped the boy's chin, studying every angle of the child's face. The boy attempted to shrink back against the farmer and slip out of his grasp, but he was trapped between the two adults. Though the grip of his physical hand remained unforgiving, Vader could not help the gentle caress he sent through the Force, aimed at soothing the child's mind.

All this time, Vader had been laboring under the delusion that his old life had been snatched away, or else destroyed by his own hand, but here was a lure dangled in front of him. He was drawn like a moth to the flame. Here was the end to his solitude, his emptiness, his disenchantment with his own existence. Here was a purpose, a reason to live, a way back to the old. There were those that would caution him against it, tell him that it was a trap that lied ahead, a road to his destruction anew, but Vader would chase it like the light it was, the only sliver of light in his all-consuming self-imposed darkness.

 _My eyes. My own, blue eyes_ , he thought as he stared, utterly transfixed, down at the boy. He felt he was suffocating under the weight of the truth before him. He let his hand fall away from the child and the boy shivered.

"The extent of Kenobi's betrayal knows no bounds," Vader spoke, but the softness was not interpreted by the vocoder.

"Luke," the farmer spoke to the boy, clearing his throat awkwardly, "This man is Lord Vader."

"I know who he is," the child broke in, quite rudely, as he glared back up at Lars. He was embarrassed perhaps that his 'uncle' thought him unable to recognize a person so iconic within the Empire. There was a flicker of irritation in the farmer's countenance, and it seemed to propel his next words, taking all the delicacy out of them and leaving them blunt.

"He's also your father."

The small child's glare returned. His eyes darted from Lars to Vader and then to Lars again, as if expecting a prank of some sort. When he was met with only stony silence his ire slowly gave way to horror as the realization sank in. And then... curiosity.

Once again, the boy hid himself behind the farmer's robes, as if that pathetic man could shield him from his destiny.

"But...but you said my dad was a navigator on a spice freighter," the boy squeaked. Vader flexed his fingers at the onslaught of feelings, the nauseating flurry of elation and anger. These circumstances, these little things did not matter. The Force had given back something precious that had been taken away. A part of Vader's mind had gone blank, repeating a single word:

 _Luke._

"You were lied to, child," Vader spoke to the boy for the first time, and it was no surprise that the boy's terror returned after being addressed. "As was I."

That single note of sympathy resounded in the Force, like a hand extended in invitation. It hung there, in the ethereal, unnoticed to all but father and son. Tentatively, oh so tentatively, the boy allowed his own, untrained Force-prob to meet it. It was instinct. It was fate.

The boy's eyes had welled with tears. Vader did not notice them until the child hastily attempted to wipe them away.

"Luke," Lars grunted, giving the boy a small shake, perhaps alarmed by the display of emotion.

"You came back for me," the child whispered, taking a few bold steps away from the farmer, "I always knew that you were out there somewhere... I used to pray at night to the sand gods and the stars and even the Tusken desert spirits...I always wished that someday you'd come home."

 _Home._ Vader pondered the curious notion. In his mind, Tatooine had never deserved such a flattering designation as _home._ Such a deep, sentimental place ought to have been somewhere more beautiful, somewhere more grand, somewhere that was not hot and sandy and utterly miserable.

Naboo could have been home. He would have made it his home, but that dream had never come to pass, Vader realized, because Naboo would only have become home because of _her._

Perhaps Vader, all along, had never understood the concept of home. A home could be made anywhere, so long as it was filled with those who cared. He realized quite suddenly that Tatooine was the only home that was left to Darth Vader.

Moved in a way that he had not been since taking up his Sith mantle, Vader dropped to one knee, lowering to a less intimidating stance before the child: the most divine gift the Force could have ever bestowed upon him. Vader found himself inexplicably humble and at a loss for words.

"I am certain I must not fit the sort of father imagined in your prayers, young one," Vader said, hesitantly almost. "Do you not find me... grotesque?" It became apparent that the child did not understand the question. His excitement, his happiness had been steadily growing since the revelation. It seemed the boy did not find him hideous in the slightest. A lifelong dream had been fulfilled for him, and it did not matter that the object of said dream wore a mask.

"You're the best starship pilot in the galaxy, aren't you? That's what my schoolbook says. I'm going to be a pilot too someday!"

Vader became aware of something heavy in his pocket. Slowly, he drew out the toy Skyhopper, now knowing it belonged to his own son, and not the son of Owen Lars as he'd first assumed.

"My T-16!" the child- Luke- exclaimed. Fear momentarily forgotten, the boy rushed forward to take back the small toy, closing that last bit of distance between them. Their fingers brushed for a moment, Luke's tiny, pale hand against his own black leather glove. Vader crushed down upon the urge to touch the child again, fascinated as he was.

Luke examined the toy, turning it over in his hands and rubbing his fingers over one of the melted wings, ruined in the fire, no doubt. He looked up suddenly, blue eyes piercing into Vader's lenses.

"Can you help my Aunt Beru?" the child blurted, summoning his courage. "The fire burnt her very bad. The medidroid said she will die soon if she can't get moved to a better hospital."

Vader glanced to the farmer, who seemed to have been holding his breath throughout the exchange. The gritty man said nothing, looking somewhat embarrassed, but eventually he gave a small nod, indicating that the child spoke the truth.

Vader stood with a flutter of his cape and strode across the room to the medical gurney. He took note of the badly disfigured woman, reconciling her image with that of the girl he'd once met at Lars' side many years in the past. Indeed, her situation was dire. It seemed she, too, was a victim of the fire at the farmstead. The cause of that fire was now known to Vader to be due to an Imperial Inquisitor carrying out his or her duties.

Owen and Beru Lars had gone to great lengths to protect the son of Darth Vader, even to the point where they had been prepared to give up their own lives.

 _They kept the boy a secret from you for ten years,_ a darker voice in his mind whispered, but Vader remembered what Lars had said in the bunker.

" _I'd like to believe Kenobi was wrong about you."_ This implied that the farmer had once been convinced by Obi-Wan that Darth Vader was an evil, despicable being that had no right to a son.

So for ten years, Lars and his wife had protected the son of Darth Vader, even from Darth Vader himself, having no word except for a bitter, old Jedi's to take as truth. The farmer had reached out to a dead man, Anakin Skywalker, with a desperate hope.

"Why did you take in the boy?" Vader finally asked. The farmer huffed, annoyed, as if the answer were obvious.

"For Shmi, of course. You think she would have wanted her grandson wrapped up in a war even before he could walk?"

Vader said nothing for a very long time. He adjusted a setting upon the medical equipment to his left, and the unconscious body of Beru Lars relaxed as more oxygen began to flow through the tubing fed into her throat. He looked down at her various burns, and was reminded of that lava bank upon Mustafar.

"The fire has done extensive damage to her body, but it is yet reversible," Vader told the farmer without turning around, "If she is to avoid an... apparatus like my own, you must consent to having her moved immediately. The medical facilities on board my star destroyer are equivalent to those upon Coruscant."

"You can save her?" The farmer asked, no more than a gruff whisper, as if he barely dared to believe.

"I can save her," Vader replied, and for the first time those words were spoken with absolute confidence.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	14. Chapter 14

.o.o.o.o.o.

Chapter 14

It was fortunate that the standard Lambda shuttle was equipped with a medical capsule capable of full life support for a limited duration. Now, brought inside the Hutt palace, Vader watched as the pitiful form of Beru Lars was gently laid inside it, and the glass cover slid across her before sealing tight. Vader then spoke to CT-6116, whose medical training was now entirely useful, and who had retrieved the capsule from the shuttle at his lord's summons.

"We shall be acquiring three new passengers for our voyage back to the _Vindicator._ Be certain this capsule finds it way to the medical bay once we have docked. This woman is to be given priority treatment. The identities of these three passengers are to be handled with the utmost discretion and any concerns may be directed to me, personally."

"Of course, sir."

"You may take charge of your patient now."

"Right away, sir."

Once the medic and the injured woman were gone from the apartment, Vader turned his attention back to Lars. The farmer's eyes had not left his wife during the transfer, and now they stared forlornly at the door the capsule had disappeared out of. What was he thinking? Was he wondering if his wife would survive the journey? For a small moment, Vader remembered what it was like to have a wife. He shut away the feelings immediately, for the ache they caused threatened to become an unbearable pain if given enough fuel.

The hour was late, with none of the suns' light remaining, and only darkness beyond the small, rectangular windows cut into the stone walls. The boy, whom Vader had last seen perched upon the room's Hutt-sized divan, was now slumped against that same piece of furniture, eyes closed, breathing softly, and still clutching his toy airspeeder.

Lars looked embarrassed as he discovered his nephew's state, and indeed, Vader could not recall the last time someone had had the audacity to fall asleep in his presence. That the Sith lord would allow it, even find it endearing on some, deep forgotten level of himself, was another matter entirely.

"S'probably had a long day, kidnapped and imprisoned all afternoon in this...place, and whatnot," the farmer said somewhat awkwardly. He took a step toward the child, but Vader stopped him by holding up a hand.

He wanted to enjoy the innocent moment for a small while longer.

Linking his mind with that of his son's, Vader caught a glimpse of the child's dream: swirling hyperspace lights tinged with far too much blue, as surely the boy had only ever seen them before via holovid. The boy dreamt of the stars, of leaving behind this planet to seek adventure and excitement, just as he, himself once had. Those naive hopes of his child-self had been anything but realistic, and yet, a part of him would have given anything to return to those innocent times.

" _The Force has brought us together, young one. You are destined for so much more than anything here on Tatooine. Accompany me, and I will show you the galaxy, and your place as its future ruler."_

The boy frowned in his slumber, perhaps unsure of the source of the voice speaking in his head, yet it did not disturb him enough to wake him. Vader was aware of the time passing. His shuttle was waiting and there was no further need to remain within the palace of Jabba the Hutt. It was time to go.

Because there was no one aside from Lars in the room, and because Vader could not sense anything or anyone within the immediate vicinity, he strode over to the sleeping child and maneuvered him so that his blonde head rested against Vader's left shoulder and his lower body was supported by the cradle of his left arm.

If Lars had a comment to make, he wisely kept his mouth shut and fell into step behind Vader as they finally left behind the Hutt apartments. The corridor was dark and lonely. It seemed not a soul was awake or alive within this vast fortress, and Vader stalked through its bleak halls feeling as though he'd conquered the place.

For carried within his arms was a prize above all prizes.

His contentment was easily disrupted when they reached the foot of the darkened staircase, and Vader realized that, in his euphoria, he had allowed himself to become distracted. A large form slithered out from one of the smaller passageways branching to the side. Vader became aware of where his lightsaber hung upon his belt, and he tested the air with the Force, yet no threat was indicated to him.

Fett stood in Jabba the Hutt's shadow, ever the dutiful slave, it seemed. Vader paused before them, but chose not to acknowledge them entirely by turning to them. How unfortunate that they had witnessed the glaring vulnerability currently tucked against his shoulder. Unfortunate for them.

" _Leaving so soon, honored guest?"_ Jabba opened his wide mouth to wonder aloud. He spoke in Huttese to Vader. No translation was forthcoming, unless Lars or Fett was meant to perform it. It was a dangerous assumption to make... that the Lord Darth Vader spoke or understood a language as foul as Huttese.

However impatient he was to make it to the shuttle with the boy, Vader was even more eager to make clear exactly what Jabba the Hutt thought he might gain from all of this.

"It would be in your best interest for you to forget I was ever here,"the Sith lord responded ominously in Basic. As tempting as it was to slip into his native tongue, he could not, in good conscience, drag his new identity through such filth.

" _This, I will not do,"_ the creature replied, after a moment of consideration.

"Then you may expect the Empire to bring swift justice upon you, Hutt. It has been a long time coming, after all," Vader snarled. The Hutt's massive, misshapen nostrils flared at the threat, and his reptilian eyes wandered for a moment to the child in the Dark Lord's arms.

" _A debt has been repaid, Skywalker, for what you did for my Rota._ _A son for a son,_ " The Hutt said in his booming voice. _"I hope your Empire will remember that,"_ Jabba finished with a deep chuckle.

Rooted in place by the utterance of his old name, Vader watched the Hutt slither back into the shadowy depths of his palace. Boba Fett offered a final incline of his head before he, too, disappeared behind the veil of darkness in the wake of his vile liege.

Slowly, Vader grasped his lightsaber with his free hand, wondering if he should pursue them. They knew such dangerous secrets. He had killed others for knowing less.

The sleeping boy shifted slightly in his grasp and Vader re-examined his priorities, all thoughts of a murderous cleanse abruptly dispersing. A child so pure ought to be shielded from the messy deaths of insignificant filth. Countless others could be sent to finish the job at a later time.

It seemed even Lars had picked up upon the tension. He expelled the breath he'd been holding.

"Stars," the farmer began, "I hate Hutts."

Through the Force, Vader echoed the sentiment.

.o.o.o.o.o.

From the rear viewport of the Imperial shuttle, Owen Lars watched his home planet become smaller and smaller in the vast distance of space. Everything he'd ever known, he was leaving behind, abandoning to the unknown of the stars. He had this feeling, this terribly sad feeling, that he might never return. Even if he did, would he be the same man?The future suddenly held so many uncertainties and the same thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind assaulted him again.

 _What have I done?_

Luke was well and truly asleep now, lying blissfully upon the cot provided in these rear quarters, thermal blanket pulled up to his ears. The boy had vowed to stay awake and watch the transition into hyperspace, but alas, he had been too tired to even keep such an important promise to himself.

Owen got the feeling the boy would have many other opportunities to do so from this day forth.

The doors snicked open, and the massive bulk of Darth Vader ducked into the small quarters. Even locked in a room with the man, Owen no longer felt any fear in the presence of what was the cause of nightmares for so many others. Even if Vader were to suddenly lash out and kill him now, with no warning or explanation, Owen felt he could die mostly at peace.

Because he was finally validated. Obi-wan Kenobi had been wrong. Darth Vader would, to the best of his abilities, love the child he had sired. Now, what that meant for the galaxy or the future of the Jedi, Owen did not know or care. A promise had been fulfilled, a duty seen-too, a burden lifted.

"What now?" Owen asked, still gazing out the viewport. Vader considered.

"Your wife's treatment and healing will span the course of several weeks. You shall be a guest aboard my star destroyer for the duration. In approximately two standard months, the _Vindicator_ will complete its tour and return to the Kuat dry dock for repairs. No decisions need be made until that time."

Owen exhaled slowly.

"Guest? I can't be your guest," the farmer scoffed, "Not if my life is to return to any semblance of what it once was when this is all over and done with. Put me to work in the hanger bay, at least. Let me earn my keep."

"I agree that having you as a guest could prove to be... problematic," Vader responded, and if Owen was not mistaken, he detected a note of amusement in the vocoder. "Too many questions will be asked. Better to place you somewhere you will go unnoticed. Therefore, your enlistment paperwork is being drawn up at this very moment."

"Good," Owen said gruffly, folding his arms stubbornly. Then he processed all of what Vader had said and he felt the blood drain from his face.

"Wait... enlistment?"

"Welcome to the Imperial Navy, Ensign Lars."

"Ah..." Owen placed his forehead in his palm and carded his fingers through his sandy hair frustratedly. Then, resigned to his fate: "Goddamn it."

 _What have I done?_

.o.o.o.o.o.


	15. Chapter 15

.o.o.o.o.o.

Chapter 15

It took two weeks for Beru to wake. Owen was at her bedside when it happened. When the over-serious officer in charge of the lower-level med bay was notified of the tell-tale change in her brainwaves, Owen was escorted up immediately from his station in the hanger. Husband and wife were given an unprecedented amount of privacy for the event, as some measure of strangeness still surrounded the unknown woman in the med bay to be given first priority under the orders of Lord Vader himself.

The former farmer held his wife's hand as he coaxed her fully awake.

"Owen?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, but working. The skin grafts upon her face were healing perfectly. Owen knew that, thanks to Vader, he would soon have his wife back almost exactly as she'd been before the fire. Already from his time upon the _Vindicator,_ Owen was coming to realize that Vader was not known for his acts of generosity. Had the man truly been so grateful to have acquired his son that he sought to repay Owen by saving Beru's life?

If so, he would surely never admit it aloud.

"It's me," Owen replied, squeezing her hand again. She probably barely recognized him in the stiff, Imperial, mechanic's coveralls, a cap on his head, and cheeks clean-shaven.

"Where are we?"

"On a star destroyer," he admitted, quietly, unsure if hidden microphones might still be able to pick up his speech. This was to be a sensitive conversation, after all. Owen watched the horror dawn upon his wife's still-puffy face.

"Oh Owen! You didn't!" she said. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"I had no choice. I couldn't lose you."

"What about Luke? Where is Luke?" she demanded.

"Luke is here, on board," Owen said firmly, holding her from where she tried to rise from her bed. "He is safe...with his father."

"He knows," her voice was hushed again as she spoke of Vader.

"Yes."

"Was he angry?"

"I don't know," Owen answered truthfully, "But he left us alive, he got you your treatment. What else can we ask for?"

Beru's eyes had welled with tears, her shallow breathing hitched and Owen suddenly became worried what would happen if she worked herself up too much.

"Luke," Beru sobbed, "My boy. Will I ever see him again?"

Owen shifted his eyes to the pristine, white floor of the medicenter.

"I don't know," he answered again, this time grim.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Boba Fett had not lied when he'd mentioned that a star destroyer was a large place. Owen worked hard to create his own little bubble within it. All he really knew of the massive ship were the sectors that housed hanger bay 2A and the level directly above in which could be found the quarters of the flight techs for that particular hangar bay.

Even getting to the closest med bay where Beru was kept was something of a hike. Owen had gotten himself lost more than once attempting to find it. Fortunately they had placed her in the medicenter used for the returning combat pilots rather than the one in the ship's aft, a hundred or so levels up and toward the bridge.

Needless to say, Owen had glimpsed Luke few times since coming aboard, only when Vader descended upon the lower levels with his god-like authority. Luke had been a tiny presence in the massive shadow of the Dark Lord as the latter went about his inspections. The boy had strode behind his father, gaze trained upon the floor, dressed in somber blacks. He never noticed Owen, nor did Owen ever attempt to get his attention.

The rumors were what traveled the halls. No one knew why there was suddenly a young, fair-haired child tailing Lord Vader wherever he went. Some guessed that the boy was a political hostage, the son of some disobedient Moff. Others, with minds more perverse, assumed Vader was keeping the child around for a more... personal use. Others still, closer to the mark, imagined the child to be their Lord's new apprentice. Even with what little was known about the Sith, it was understood that they began their training extraordinarily young.

Vader had not divulged the truth to anyone, it seemed. Owen could not guess as to why, but as he was forced to endure the rumors day after day, the knowledge of the truth made the him feel terribly isolated among his new peers.

"Alright under there, Lars? Do I need to send the electrical systems specialist over?" A junior tech asked him. Owen returned to the task at hand. Fretting over what was becoming of Luke wouldn't help fix this craft. TIE maintenance was dull and repetitive, and the fighters weren't anything extraordinary. It almost made Owen long for the old days in the spaceport, where there was always the challenge of a tricked-out smuggler freighter sitting in the repair bay.

At some point, the fighter's pilot happened over and struck up a leisurely conversation with the junior tech. Owen was beginning to wonder how anything ever got done between all the mindless chatter these mechanics indulged in. The utter lack of work ethic was disgusting. These boys took no pride in what they did, had no respect for their place in the war effort. Owen finished his final assessment and hauled himself out from underneath the craft.

"Who is this?" the pilot asked the tech, apparently ignorant of the fact that someone had actually been working on his fighter. Typical, arrogant son-of-a-neck. All the fighter pilots were. Just because they could hold a joystick and shoot at a moving target.

"New guy. Still technically in training, but Old Man Lars knows more about ion engines than the entire ground crew combined," the junior tech explained, nonchalant.

"Just because the rest of ya are still wet behind the ears, doesn't make me old," Owen growled resentfully. He wiped his stained hands upon a rag before grabbing the TIE's maintenance checklist and heading to lunch.

He'd attempted to remain aloof and sullen the first few weeks in his new position, as it would be easier to avoid unwanted questions if he were to sit alone in the mess, at the far end of a table with several seats in between himself and the next group of men. It was temporarily, Owen told himself. He would not remain a pawn of the Empire forever, only until Beru was healed. He respected what these men did, truly, but he himself did not fully support their cause. It made him feel like a traitor among their ranks.

However, as the days dredged on, it soon proved impossible to discourage the attention of his ship mates. The 151st bomber squadron which he'd been assigned to were curious as to the man who had been thrown in with their crew, appearing from no where, in what was the final stretch of their tour. Though they never did manage to pry any answers from Owen's mouth, they nevertheless wove him into their tight-knit group, oblivious to the fact that he'd never wanted such a thing. He attempted to eat the tasteless gruel whilst the others gossiped around him.

"You know what I heard from Tarak?" said one pilot to a docking bay engineer that sometimes would join their group. Owen was always forgetting their names.

"Why do you still talk to that nerf?" the engineer replied.

"He's got a friend of a friend that's a bridge officer. Hears things sometimes. They're creating a new fighter squadron. An elite one. Only taking the best of the best."

"That's old news, and you're touched in the head if you think they'll take a second-rate pilot like you in Black Squadron," there was a round of hearty laughter. "Does this friend of a friend happen to know who Old Man Lars slept with in order to get this transfer?"

"Watch it," Owen growled, stabbing the piece of meat upon his plate with his fork. Making wild guesses about his pre- _Vindicator_ life was a game to them now. They'd conjured up a myriad of stories, from Owen Lars the Carida dropout to Owen Lars the rebel spy, and every dumb thing that lay between.

A gradual reduction in noise was overtaking the mess hall, and Owen finally lifted his eyes from his tray to observe the upset. There was a familiar, fair head of hair making its way down the aisle of tables, leaving silence in its wake. The small, smartly dressed boy could not have been more out of place in the crowded mess hall filled with the greased up, enlisted masses. He was unsure. His eyes were darting left and right at the men he passed, wary of their reaction to him. Finally, his gaze locked upon his uncle and he broke out into a run toward where Owen was seated.

Owen had not risen from his place in order to greet the child, still half hoping the boy would just continue on through. Though it had only been weeks since he'd last interacted with the kid upon the shuttle, it felt as though years had passed. This wasn't _his_ Luke anymore. This was Vader's Luke. The boundaries between them had grown fuzzy.

The boy stood breathlessly before him, appearing almost triumphant.

"Uncle Owen!" the child panted. His voice was louder than the whisper the farmer would have preferred.

It wasn't right, Owen decided, that they should pretend that their connection didn't exist. And besides, Vader had not expressly forbid the two of them from speaking, he'd only made it bloody difficult to do so, as per Owen's own wishes. The farmer had not wanted to intrude upon the budding relationship between father and son. It would have been so much easier to just... fade into the background.

Perhaps it had been a mistake. Owen sighed, swiveling around in his seat so that the table and the stunned faces of those who occupied it were at his back.

"Are you lost?" he spoke to the child in a low voice so as not to be overheard. The child shook his head, grinning now.

"This ship is huge! I explore somewhere new every day. Yesterday, I went to the engine block and made friends with some of the workers there. Did you know the hyperdrive range for this ship is sixty-thousand light years? Tomorrow I'm going to see if they'll let me fire the turbolasers!" the boy babbled in an excited rush.

"Luke," Owen began, scratching his head as he thought of how to word his next statement. "Do you like it here?" Luke nodded enthusiastically, "Does your father treat you well?"

"Sometimes, he can be scary when he's around other people," Luke mumbled to his polished boots. Then he looked up, as if he regretted speaking ill of someone he admired. "But he lets me do whatever I want AND he lets me eat whatever I want, anytime I want. He said he'll take me out in a TIE fighter soon. He's pretty cool, I guess."

"Would you want to stay here... with him?" Owen asked hesitantly. Though he knew Luke had no choice in the matter, it would put him at ease to know the boy could be happy in his new life, and that he, himself, had made the right decision. To his surprise, the boy did not immediately respond, putting a finger to his lips and chewing contemplatively.

An answer was never given, for at that moment, the wide doors to the mess hall slid open again to reveal the form of Darth Vader. It seemed the father had personally come after his wayward son. Luke hid himself behind his uncle, and Owen felt his heart sink at the thought that Luke feared his new guardian. Then the boy let out a delighted giggle.

"Oops. He found me quick this time! He's really good at hide and seek," Luke commented, "You should play with us, Uncle Owen."

Feeling a strange relief, Owen shunted away the bizarre image of Vader engaging in a child's game aboard a place as serious as a star destroyer. The suited figure did not take a single step inside the mess, as if he would dirty himself just by breathing the same air as the lower ranks. Owen supposed he would be calling Luke to him via some sort of Jedi telepathy, if that was even a thing.

"C'mon," Owen said to the kid, taking the boy by the shoulder and leading him to where his father stood waiting. He realized he was under the scrutiny of hundreds of pairs of eyes whose owners might be assuming he was now marching to his death.

"I trust that the boy caused you no problems?" Vader surprised him with this opening statement, eerily calm and... conversational?

"Not at all, Lord Vader," And, oh, the _Lord_ part of that reply did not come off the tongue so easy for Owen. Formalities... titles, they were all so pointless, and they hadn't ever had much place upon Tatooine. Even stranger was the fact that Owen was now forced to salute a slave he still had a claim to. Old prejudices, he supposed. Such a thing would certainly take some getting used to.

"Good. Carry on."

"Wait," Owen said, and then immediately was embarrassed for uttering that single word, but it was too late. The dark figure regarded him expectantly. "It's Beru. She's awake now, and well... she's been asking after Luke," Owen put his hand to the back of his head and scratched nervously beneath his cap, unsure of how to ask a favor of Vader while he wore this uniform. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble..."

"I will see to it that Luke pays her a visit."

"Thank you," Owen breathed in relief, and then, realizing he'd forgotten himself again, quickly added, "My Lord." Vader had already turned away

"Bye Uncle Owen," the child bid him farewell before focusing on the massive bulk of his father while they began to retreat down the corridor. "Can we visit the med bay right now?"

"Patience, little one." Owen caught the deep rumble. He became aware he was still standing stupidly at the doors when they automatically whisked shut a few feet in front of his face. Noise was steadily growing in the mess hall once again now that the danger was thought to have passed. Owen returned to his table and pulled his half-eaten tray back to him. There was still the rest of his shift to get through.

"The hell do you think you're looking at?" Owen growled at the dumb-struck ground crew seated around him.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Vader spared a final glance at the child sprawled upon the floor of his personal quarters aboard the _Vindicator_. The boy was lying on his belly, amusing himself with some Dejarik figures that Vader may or may not have stolen from the officer's lounge. In the background, a holoshow involving racing swoop bikes blared loudly.

The star destroyer was well into its night cycle, but Vader couldn't bring himself to force the child to sleep. He couldn't force the boy to do anything, instead preferring to watch the boy find endless entertainment in his luxurious, new confines. The reality of the situation had yet to sink in, and it was ridiculous moments such as these where Vader once again found it hard to believe he was suddenly responsible for something so _alive._ How could it be that the monstrous Lord Vader was now tasked with a duty so... ordinary as caring for a child?

The doors closed upon the distracted child, separating father and son into two different rooms. Vader activated the holoprojector. It would be an untruth to say he had not been dreading this call. He dropped to one knee before the blue form of his master and waited for him to speak.

"It seems, Lord Vader, that you have acquired a stray." Sidious wasted no time in addressing the most prominent issue at hand, and Vader didn't know whether he ought to be thankful for it or not. Already, the conversation had taken on a tone that he did not appreciate. He felt his mechanical fingers clench.

"He is my son."

"He is the son of Anakin Skywalker," Sidious said dismissively. And Vader was aware it was a test.

"He was conceived by Anakin Skywalker and born to Darth Vader," the apprentice asserted. He would not be swayed in this.

"So you mean to claim the boy, then?" There was no inflection, no hint of approval or disappointment... yet.

"Did you know of this, Master?" Vader ignored the old man's question in favor of his own, far more excruciating one. He couldn't help the accusation laced within the words. The knowledge that his master might have been keeping this from him all along was yet another breach of trust he was scarcely brave enough to contemplate.

" _It seems, in your anger, you killed her."_

"Did I know that your wife had indeed lived long enough to birth you a son? Did I know that the Jedi had managed to smuggle him away to the outer rim, to a planet you would not dare to visit?" Palpatine let the response dangle in the air for a while, eager to watch his apprentice squirm under what could amount to a massive betrayal.

Then the man sighed. "No, Lord Vader. I did not know of those things until I managed to rip the information from your former Jedi master's mind a few weeks past. I have never lied to you, apprentice. Never had I the need."

"You did not inform me immediately." Vader knew he was fishing for blame now, but these emotions he felt were... overpowering. Sidious sneered.

"In recent times, you've shown yourself to be neither caring not paternal. Indeed, your ruthlessness had been a great asset in the Empire's rise to glory. I did not imagine you would have the constitution for fatherhood. It would have been an unnecessary burden. It would have distracted you. Yes, I believed the child was better placed in his current home. Do you disagree?"

"He was kept from me for ten years."

"And in those ten years you were able to hone your dark side abilities to a level of almost perfect mastery. In those ten years, a boy grew up in a relatively peaceful environment, free from the ravages of war. Could you truly have given him a better life?"

Vader could not help but shudder at that truth. Nevertheless...

"I will not be parted from him again," Vader declared. He almost felt his master's exasperation through the Force. The old man raised his chin so that he stared down upon his second in command with a disapproving eye.

"You ask far too much of me, my apprentice. You propose that we violate the Rule of Two, the sacred oath that has held together our Sith line for centuries." Vader remained silent at this, he would have held his breath were it possible, and he realized that this was the closest he'd come to begging since his Jedi days.

 _Pathetic creature_ , Palpatine seemed to whisper with his gaze, but eventually every feature of that lined face softened.

"You will bring the boy before my court and make an official claim. I shall not have rumors of my enforcer's lascivious ways and illegitimate offspring running rampant in my palace. The boy's training, if I deem him fit, will be overseen by myself. Have I made myself clear, Lord Vader?"

Vader's relief was surely palpable.

"You have, my master."

"Then I shall see you when you next return to Coruscant. Safe travels, my old friend."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	16. Chapter 16

.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: I couldn't resist adding in Piett. He's got to be the most lovable Imperial Officer in all of Star Wars. I finished this chapter rather quickly, so I apologize for typos.

Chapter 16

"Surely they are only smugglers making their run from the Kessel system," Captain Motti was saying from where he stood next to Admiral Konstantine upon the bridge of the SD _Vindicator._ Piett kept his head down at his console, giving no indication that he was listening in upon the conversation between his superior officers.

"In those numbers I am more inclined to think pirates. These rim sectors are crawling with them," Konstantine replied, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. Piett quite agreed with the Admiral, and if the three unknown ships that were, at this moment, keeping barely out of range of their sensors suddenly decided to cease their circling and move in for the kill, Piett was quite certain they would put up a decent fight.

Motti let out a small bark of nervous laughter.

"But they would not dare try and attack a star destroyer!" the captain said. Admiral Konstantine did not seem so sure. He gazed pensively out the viewport.

"Perhaps we were hasty in dismissing our escort," he agreed. His eyes then swept the bridge for a moment, honing in upon the most junior of his underlings, coming to rest upon Piett.

"Lieutenant Piett," the Admiral called, "Please locate Lord Vader and inform him that his presence is requested upon the bridge."

A shudder went down Piett's spine and he sat rigidly at his station a moment longer, as if hoping he had heard wrong, or that the order might have been directed at one of his peers instead. No luck there. Piett was beginning to wonder if low ranking bridge officers existed solely to be used as sacrificial lambs in situations such as these.

It had never been him yet. He'd seen others go to fetch Vader and never return. This could be his last day upon the bridge or on this star destroyer or... alive. The thought made him sick with fear, but he somehow managed to find his feet and subsequently, his way to the lift.

Lord Vader would not be in his quarters, or else Admiral Konstantine could have commed the man himself. Piett was suddenly at a loss of where to begin. What did Lord Vader do when he was not holed up in his rooms or terrorizing the hardworking lieutenants that manned his bridge?

Piett had already wasted time wandering the corridors before an idea came to him. He remembered a comment that Captain Motti had once made about how Lord Vader had a private training hall where he would go to 'practice his sorcery and wave his laser sword around'.

Piett found the training hall with ease once he knew where to look. He was afraid for a moment that the door might not open for him, but it seemed he need not worry. He was admitted into a windowless room with high ceilings. It was rather what Piett had expected, with foam mats upon the floor and combat droids laying dormant against the walls.

Lord Vader was indeed within the room, but before Piett could gather his courage and march over to him, he witnessed something that gave him pause.

Vader was with the boy. That in itself was not so surprising. The small, blonde child had become the dark lord's shadow since his mysterious arrival several weeks ago. No one seemed able to identify the boy, or determine his purpose upon the star destroyer. Piett himself had been reserving judgment, choosing not to make any dangerous assumptions.

The child had a training staff in his hands, far too long for someone of his height, but he bandied it before him with fervor, giggling wildly. Vader too, held a staff, and was using it to calmly meet each of the excited child's attacks.

"I can... beat you!" the boy announced breathlessly with a rough swing. Vader met this one easily as the last ones, but this time he took a step to drive the child back. The boy stumbled and fell onto his backside.

"You are unbalanced," Vader informed the child gently. Piett had not been aware that his voice could take on tones so soft. "Your feet should remain a shoulder's width apart and you must shift your weight forward." The boy jumped up again enthusiastically, but before he could resume the fight, he turned curiously to where Piett stood.

Vader, too, finally noticed the intruder in his hall. Piett inhaled deeply and started forward, aware that he'd been caught staring.

"Milord," Piett began once he was standing before the massive black form of Darth Vader. It was that moment that the alarm sounded, a call for battle stations. It rendered Piett's entire mission pointless. "Your presence is requested upon the bridge," Piett said anyway, knowing it must sound so stupid now.

The dark lord did nothing for a moment, as if considering. Considering how best to murder him? Piett couldn't help but wonder. Finally, Vader reached down to take the child's weapon and set it aside along with his own. The boy let out a whine of protest.

"Can we play more later?" the boy asked, hopelessly innocent as he stared pleadingly up at the black mask. Vader did not respond. Instead he regarded Piett.

"What is your name, Lieutenant?" he asked. Piett was almost too relieved to answer.

"P-Piett, Milord. Firmus Piett."

"I have a task for you, Lieutenant Piett." the dark lord said. He nudged the boy forward a step.

"You will take this child to docking bay 2A. There you will find a flight technician by the name of Lars. You are to deliver the child into his care. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Milord."

"I will collect him at my leisure. You may explain that to Lars if he protests."

Vader swept past him then, his black cloak whipping back to catch him in the face. When the door had snicked shut behind Vader, Piett looked down upon his new assignment with unbridled curiosity. The child's face was drawn into a disappointed pout. Disappointed that Vader had left him behind. And here Piett was thanking the galaxy's various deities that Vader was gone. Piett felt the need to say something in fake consolation but he wasn't sure it was proper.

"Come with me," he said instead. How was the boy meant to be addressed? Why had this never been covered in his training? The child fell in behind him as they left the room and stepped out into the corridor.

"What is that noise?" the child asked of the alarm that still sounded while they walked. Piett realized that the boy spoke with a strong, rim accent. It surprised him because the pervading theories about the boy all suggested he was core royalty. Core royalty did not speak as though they'd just stepped off a Tatooine moisture farm.

"It informs the rest of the crew that there are enemies nearby, and they must be prepared to fight."

"Wow! Is this ship going to fight a battle? A real battle? Can I watch?" the child exclaimed, stepping closer to Piett now that the ice had been broken. Piett had no idea how to answer.

"I am to deliver you to a man named Lars," the lieutenant replied stiffly.

"Uncle Owen won't let me watch. He will put me to work," the boy scowled, crossing his arms and pouting once more.

 _Uncle_ , Piett noted. So the child had family upon this ship after all.

"Can't you take me to where my father is, instead?" the boy asked, looking up at Piett with wide, blue eyes that the officer dare not study in great depth. _His father is aboard as well._

"I am to take you to Lars. Those are my orders," Piett repeated. The boy sighed, as if resigning himself to a boring day.

"Hey, what's your name again?"

"Lieutenant Piett," the man answered, and because he suddenly felt bold: "And may I ask yours?"

"My name is Luke."

"It is nice to meet you, Luke."

It was a long journey down into the base of the star destroyer. Piett himself entered areas of the ship that he had never seen before. Given his station, there was little reason for him ever to venture into the lower levels. They were decidedly blue-collar, populated by greasy workers that reminded Piett of the rough spacers from his home planet. It did not necessarily make him uncomfortable, rather it threw into sharp relief the world he was now part of, a world of stuffy officers, of endless political intrigue and backstabbing.

The hanger bay was a flurry of noise and excitement. Ground crews hovered around the fighters, making last minute adjustments. Pilots scurried about, pulling on pieces of their flightsuits. The _Vindicator_ had not yet seen any real action in all the time she'd been deployed. It seemed everyone was aware that this was no drill.

People that had noticed Piett soon saw what he had in tow and gave him a wide berth. Even down here, the child was a well-known presence, treated with fear and hushed reverence. It made asking after Lars extremely difficult.

"Hey, you! Sailor!" Piett awkwardly tried to pin one down, but the man took one look at him and bolted off. The boy, Luke, seemed to sense his frustration. He tugged on Piett's sleeve.

"I think he works over there," the child pointed to a section of the hanger bay obscured by racks of TIE's. Having nothing else to go on, Piett nodded and set off that direction.

"There he is!" Luke exclaimed as they approached. He pointed to a rather unremarkable-looking fellow who was perched precariously on a TIE, speaking and gesturing to a nervous pilot sitting in the cockpit.

The closer they drew, the more Piett was able to pick up what the man was shouting over the roar of the engines.

"...if you feel your left side start to go, just shut it off and redirect power from the right. Give it ten seconds before you reboot. We haven't had time to find out why it glitches like that," Lars said. The pilot nodded mutely. "You'll be fine, boy. I'm sure there's nothing out there." Lars gripped the shoulder of the flightsuit for a moment before he slid off the craft. The TIE's cable was detached and the sleek fighter soon lifted into the air and made for the shielded opening along with the rest of its squad.

His attention no longer on the TIE, Lars turned and did a double take when he noticed Piett and the child. Immediately his expression became a stony mask. Piett got his first impression that this man might not be what he seemed.

"Sent you, did he?" Lars grunted, question directed at Piett. Stormy, blue eyes raked over his uniform in easy dismissal. Piett bristled. How dare some lowly mechanic give him such a look? And he dared to speak of Lord Vader in such informal terms.

"Lord Vader instructed me to find a tech named Lars and deliver this boy to him," Piett informed the man a bit haughtily. Lars threw down the rag he was holding with a scowl.

"Doesn't he realize that I've got work to do? What am I supposed to tell the crew chief?" he seemed to realize that Piett couldn't answer that. He gestured rudely at Luke.

"C'mon boy. You can help me clean up these astromechs," Lars said gruffly. He'd none of the patient indulgence that Lord Vader had displayed toward the child. Luke looked to Piett then, annoyance clear on the boy's face as if to say, _See? Told you so._ The boy broke away from him, walking dejectedly towards the mechanic.

"Uncle Owen, can't we go do something fun?" Piett heard the child whine, "Father let me sword fight with him today."

"I don't give a womprat's ass about what he lets you do. He oughtta teach you something useful."

"This is so unfair!"

"Life's unfair."

Piett's body had gone numb while he listened to the exchange. A few careless words had revealed so much, yet it all made sense. Perfect sense.

"Was there something else?" Owen Lars barked, and Piett realized again that he'd been staring.

"No, sir." Piett replied, his voice a little more than a squeak. _Sir?_ Where had that come from all of the sudden? Embarrassed, humiliated, and now quite frightened, Piett turned on his heel and walked quickly away, eager to put some distance between himself and the mechanic.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" another tech stopped him before he could reach the lifts. He had a few others about him, tools still in their hands. "Tell us about Lars, will ya? How come he's so familiar with that kid? He won't say nothing to us."

"Go back to your stations," Piett said coldly. There was nothing he could tell them. It would only be to their detriment if they were to discover the krayt dragon that was hidden in their midst.

Once back upon the bridge, Piett did not dare look again upon the black figure of Lord Vader. What he now knew might just be enough to see himself killed. He slunk quietly back to his console attempting to draw the least amount of attention that he could.

The communications officer to his left smirked cruelly when he caught sight of Piett's ashen face.

"Vader scared you that bad, eh?" he whispered.

 _No,_ Piett thought, _not Vader._

.o.o.o.o.o.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Two chapters and my apologies for the long wait.

Chapter 17

"I don't know about this, Owen," Beru told him softly. The tone was reminiscent of that starry night upon Tatooine when Luke had first been passed into their care.

"It will be alright, Beru. Let's get inside," Owen said to her, and with the words came another spike of that deja-vu.

He exited the luxury speeder first, turning back to extend a hand to his wife. Though she was still quite weak from her extended stay in the _Vindicator's_ med bay, she was quickly regaining her strength. Nothing of her injuries remained aside from a few surgical scars and atrophied muscles, which her makeup and flowing gown of fine, Devaronian silk well-distracted from.

Owen looked down upon his own, smartly cut robes, fashioned from exotic tauntaun wool. He pulled absently at the cuffs embroidered tastefully in gold, and thought upon how a single set of clothing might just be equivalent in worth to all the vaporators that had once been on his farmstead. _I feel ridiculous in this._ Surely someone would notice the rimworld trash that lied beneath.

It was temporary. It was all temporary, he assured himself.

A guard of stormtroopers fell in around them after Owen had pulled his wife from the speeder. He payed them no mind, knowing they were for his own protection against Coruscant's most deadly native creature, the media.

No one yet knew much of anything about Owen and Beru Lars or Luke Skywalker, but it was possible that after tonight they could no longer remain in obscurity.

Owen was unsure of what to think of that.

Darth Vader awaited them in the massive atrium of the Imperial Palace, appearing almost a statue in his stillness. Luke was at his side, impeccably dressed, and like a well-groomed pup, he could barely control his excitement upon seeing his aunt and uncle. The child flung himself into his aunt's arms, and even Owen allowed himself an affectionate pat to the boy's head.

"This way," Vader beckoned, "It is not wise to keep the Emperor waiting." Owen could already feel his palms sweating. First a Jedi, then a viceroy, then Vader, and now the Emperor. Owen Lars was being shoved up the societal ladder faster than he could grasp the rungs.

"I don't know how you expect me to do this. I'm a moisture farmer, for stars' sake," Owen hissed so that only Vader might hear him.

"Your occupation and status have no meaning to Palpatine," Vader whirled around to point a finger in Owen's face, "This interaction with the Emperor is scripted. If you were unable to memorize those simple statements contained in the message you were sent, then neither I nor the Emperor will suffer the embarrassment of your presence in the throne room."

"Alright, I get it. Don't shame the family," Owen replied dryly. He ran a hand over his smoothly shaven chin in contemplation. "Maybe I should attempt a core accent. What do you think?"

Vader did not answer. He had gone strangely rigid, as if enduring the company of the awkward farmer had become physically painful, yet he did not pause in his walk down the long, imposing arcade. The palace consumed them in its maze. Owen soon found that he could not keep his sense of direction after so many turns. Perhaps the design was intentional that way? It was disconcerting.

They arrived at a massive set of double doors. Here, Vader turned to Luke and oh-so-gently guided the child to stand next to his uncle. He then offered his arm to Beru, who looked to Owen in fright for a moment before taking it hesitantly.

"Do not fail me, Lars," Vader finished cryptically before he and Beru entered the doors in front of them. Owen caught a glimpse of what was beyond. There was the suggestion of a long walkway, and chatter of courtiers and petitioners that stood lingering just inside.

Owen waited to be summoned. Silently, he felt Luke slip his tiny hand into his own in a gesture of support. The boy had stayed so strong through all of this, so carefree. If only Owen himself could have remained so blissfully naive. The doors finally swept open again, fully revealing the cathedral-like room with its tall, arched ceilings and circular windows. Humans and aliens decked out in their finest attire mingled about in the recesses off to the sides of aisle to be used by supplicants. Silence had fallen. Owen fixed his gaze upon the singular, dark robed figure that sat in the throne at the very end of the walkway upon a raised dais. He was surrounded by guards draped all in red.

Owen swallowed and then began to walk. He could feel the eyes of the others boring into him, questioning, judging, dismissing. It was rather like walking back into that nice hotel upon Tatooine.

 _You don't belong here._

Far too soon, Owen and Luke were at the foot of that staircase. Off to the left, he caught sight of Beru, who had been left in the company of a red guard. Her lips were tight, but she offered him a nod of encouragement.

"Step forward, my friend. Please, state your name," said an old, weary voice from beneath the dark cloak upon the throne. The man was tinier and more shriveled than he appeared on the holonet. How did such a being manage to instill such fear and awe throughout the galaxy?

"Owen Lars, Your Majesty," Owen replied, smaller and weaker than he'd intended. It was as if he couldn't find his voice within the overbearing presence of this man.

"Why have you come before me?"

"To present to you my nephew, so that you might verify his bloodline and he might reclaim his rightful place in this Empire," the farmed responded, doing his best to remember his lines. The Emperor leaned forward subtly in his throne, as if considering the boy before him.

"Who is this child?" he asked, and Owen felt his mouth go slightly dry before the big reveal. He licked his lips nervously. Luke's eyes flicked up to him, questioning, when Owen's hand tightened around the smaller one it held.

There was certainly no going back now.

"He is the son of the Lord Darth Vader, Your Majesty."

Whispers broke out, all around him and up in the high galleries. Owen watched as the shining, yellow eyes of the Emperor narrowed slightly in annoyance, perhaps displeased with the chatter.

"That is quite the claim, Mr. Lars. Please explain how this child came to be in your custody."

"A Jedi came to my door and and left the infant boy in my care after threatening me to silence. The boy's mother was dead and I was the only other family he had left," Owen replied, only slightly deviating from the lines he'd been fed. It was not untrue, he supposed, and so he had no issue with speaking it aloud. Luke turned to him sharply, surprise in his wide eyes. This was the first time he would have heard of the Jedi's role in his upbringing. Owen continued, unbidden. "I don't turn my back on family. It's not how I was raised. That's why I'm here today."

The Emperor let the silence drag for slightly longer than strictly necessary, as if taking into account Owen's unexpected additions. He leaned back into his throne once again, settling his elbows onto the arm rests and intertwining his skeletal fingers.

"What do you make of this, I wonder, Lord Vader?" the hooded figure called to the man in the shadows. Vader stepped forward from the darkness behind the throne so that he stood at the Emperor's side.

"Lars speaks the truth, my master," Vader answered in his deep baritone, "The child's mother was murdered when the Jedi attempted to seize power. The boy was a victim of the Jedi's last, desperate plot to turn my own son against me."

With this acknowledgment from the Emperor's enigmatic right hand man, came more stares, more whispers. With all the subtleties brushed aside, his and Luke's story was far more damning to the Jedi and their republic. Owen had the feeling that he had just been made into a political stunt, the iron rod to stoke the old flame of hatred for the Jedi.

"What is your name, child?" the fragile, old man's voice had softened a note as he turned his attention to Luke, in effect, drawing the attention of what felt like the entire galaxy. The boy looked first to Owen, as if wishing for his uncle to take him from the room and save him from the embarrassment of having all eyes upon him. Then Luke looked to where his father stood and seemed to remember himself.

"Luke Lars, Your Majesty" the boy's head had dipped in shyness, making his words come out a bit muffled. Owen realized that he was not the only one that had been given lines. Luke had been instructed to lie about his name. But of course, Owen thought, the name 'Skywalker' was linked to a Jedi. It was no longer fit to use.

"Not any longer, child. From this day forth you shall take on the surname Vader, and you shall be instated as heir to your father's lands and titles," the Emperor said, but he was not finished.

"Owen Lars," the old man called, his voice raised once again. And even though Owen knew what was coming, he still couldn't help but feel awkward about it. "You have returned to the Empire something most invaluable and at great personal risk. Your service will not be forgotten. You are to be awarded the Order of the White Star for your bravery and your sacrifice."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I will wear it with honor." _More like bury it in the sand when I get home,_ Owen thought. He bowed and when he did so, he put a hand on Luke's head to remind the boy to do it as well. Even as harmless as this old man seemed, Owen could tell he was not a man to cross. There was something lurking beneath the surface, a foulness concealed under all that charm.

.o.o.o.o.o.

"The child is the spitting image of his father the day I first encountered him upon Naboo. So small, but so bright in the Force." Sidious remarked, much later in the evening, when it remained only Vader and his master within the vast throne room. The Emperor had left the coveted chair to stand before the window behind it, gazing out upon his city. Through the Force, Vader could feel the other man's satisfaction with the day. The Emperor's next words were softer.

"Do you see, Lord Vader, how the dark side rewards those who are faithful?"

"I do, my master," Vader replied, "Do you wish me to kill the farmer and his wife?" It was not something he was particularly looking forward to, especially after all the effort he'd gone through to save their necks, but after his master insisted on including them in his ploy today, the entire galaxy now knew their names and they had become massive liabilities.

Sidious did not reply for a long while, nearly prompting Vader to ask the question again.

"A simple, hardworking man with no ambition is always useful, Lord Vader," he said.

"I do not see how..."

"There are a great many things you do not yet see, my apprentice. They might reveal themselves to you if you would only open your eyes," Sidious cut him off brusquely. "That farmer has just been elevated to a position of enormous power within my Empire with the implication of a blood tie to my second in command. As well, he is loyal to you in a way that no money or power can buy. If I were you, I would not let it go to waste."

Vader scowled. He had never intended for the farmer to play such a large part. He had hoped for the man and his wife to simply disappear back into anonymity. They could keep their lives and their secrets, so long as they did it away from Coruscant. His master had other plans, it would seem, not the least of which was forcing him to endure the embarrassment that was Owen Lars. It was punishment, surely, for Vader's demand to have his son at his side.

Two TIE fighters drifted lazily past the window in a routine security pattern. Sidious watched them with interest.

"The man is good with ships. I can think of perhaps three different engineering corporations who may soon be in need of some Imperial oversight," Sidious said dryly, "Do try to use your imagination, my apprentice, taxing as that may be for you."

"Lars will never accept the position."

"So sure are you?" Sidious let out a low chuckle, as if the answer to getting a stubborn farmer to forget about his land on that desolate dust ball was something obvious. "He is a family man, is he not, Lord Vader? Allow him to become part of yours, however marginally you please, and I'm certain the couple will remain upon Coruscant for you and their beloved nephew."

To say that Vader found the idea distasteful was a bit of an understatement. To refuse, however, would be to deny the lesson that his master was attempting to teach him.

"And if I may say, Lord Vader," the Emperor continued. "They seem far more practiced in the art of child-rearing. I hear the boy has become quite spoiled from his short stay upon your star destroyer."

"Captain Motti has been in to see you, I assume," Vader spat, "Or was it my Admiral?" Palpatine gave him a withering look.

"I can assure you, Vader, that I do not instruct your officers to come crying to me with their various complaints. That they feel they need to simply demonstrates your inability to lead them efficiently, or instill any sort of loyalty in them," the Emperor sighed, "But that is beside the point. I shall not tolerate any hint of disobedience when the boy comes to me for training. You must try not to ruin him in the meantime. Otherwise I cannot guarantee the boy will survive my tutoring."

Vader settled on bitter silence, for his master spoke the truth. It was plain to see that he'd already failed the boy in matters of discipline.

Sidious gave a long, drawn out sigh, as if he wearied of dealing with his headstrong apprentice.

"I shall speak with this farmer myself I suppose, since you are so very unwilling, and now I shall take my leave of you, Lord Vader. There is still a project awaiting me in my dungeon."

"This 'project' of yours seems to be occupying a great deal of your time," Vader growled, knowing just what his master was referring to.

"Jealousy is most unbecoming, my apprentice. Now that you have decided to take up the momentous task of fatherhood, I daresay I'll need something new to occupy my time. Would you begrudge an old man his favorite hobby?"

Vader knew he was only being toyed with. Sidious would do as he pleased.

"No, my master."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I am enjoying writing Palpatine. He is just so... unpredictable

Chapter 18

"...Many of the Empire's elite have townhomes within the Imperial Palace block. You shall have access to a series of underground tunnels that lead directly to the palace in the event of an emergency. Security personnel are on site all hours of the day. As well, each of these residences is-"

"We're not interested," Owen grunted, crossing his arms and refusing to look out the speeder's window, as he'd found that the other vehicles zooming by and the height at which they flew proved rather nauseating. It was the day following that charade at the palace, a pretty day upon Coruscant, with a mild heat that was a bit moist, but not at all unpleasant. The planet's one sun was shining bright in a sky peppered with small clouds, yet it was not overbearing in the slightest. Who knew there were places in this galaxy where a sun need not be an object of torture?

"Oh, Owen. Let us at least take a look," Beru sighed, "We may get the poor man in trouble if we refuse." She smiled warmly at the lieutenant, who presumably had been sent by Lord Vader to talk them into staying upon Coruscant and was now, bizarrely, attempting to sell them real estate.

"Fine. Let's get this over with."

"I will make it quick and painless as possible, sir," replied the lieutenant.

"You can start by removing the 'sir'," Owen bit out. Why was everyone calling him 'sir' these days? His rank during his ridiculously short stint in the military had been that of a private, and as far as he knew, he'd not been promoted or given a planet to govern or anything of the sort.

"Of course, sir."

They set down upon the landing pad that hovered just above a sprawling complex that seemed to contain a number of townhomes complete with courtyard gardens and balconies overlooking the endless metropolis.

Owen stepped from the speeder and once again turned back to help Beru. Again they were dressed in robes and gowns not at all befitting their humble station, but Owen was beginning to realize that to wear anything else would only draw undue attention to themselves.

Their guide ushered them into the stately home, whereupon they were met with a new surprise.

Within the nearest parlor, two familiar people were seated upon the stylish couches, being attended to by servants, and looking uncomfortably flattered. It took Owen a long moment to recognize Vern and Bernice Whitesun, for they were freshly bathed, stripped of their desert rags and stuffed into something more befitting of a Coruscanti noble, though their tanned and lined faces still told the truth of hard work in a harsh climate.

Realization was slow to come to both parties, it seemed. Owen's in-laws were looking similarly puzzled upon encountering the finely dressed couple who'd entered the room. However, they eventually got to their feet in mute shock upon seeing their daughter whole and well again. Owen remembered that the last his in-laws had seen Beru, she was lying in the medicenter covered in disfiguring burns. After their abrupt departure with Vader, poor Vern and Bernice Whitesun must have lived these last few months wondering what had become of their daughter, son-in-law and adopted grandson.

"My girl!" exclaimed Bernice as she glided over to the younger woman and embraced her. Tears were shining on her face. "Oh stars, I must be dreaming."

"Sand hells, man!" gruffed Vern as Owen reached out to steady the man on his feet. His eyes were wide, taking in Owen and the surrounding accommodations as if he still couldn't believe what he was seeing, "What you been up to these last few months to land yourself here? We'd search parties combing the desert for ya and everything!"

"It's a long story," Owen sighed, immediately overwhelmed, and when he went to run a hand through his hair, expecting to feel sand and grit, he was annoyed to have it come away with perfumed hair gel instead. There was a more important matter to be annoyed with, however. "How did you get here, dad?" Owen asked. The other man frowned.

"Stormtroopers came to the house. Thought we were being arrested, but it turns out you were being awarded some medal on Coruscant and we were invited to the ceremony by the Emperor himself! Couldn't well refuse that now could I?"

"No, I don't suppose you could have," Owen said, mostly under his breath. Beru turned to her father to embrace him as well and the three of them began to extol the various luxuries and oddities to be found upon Coruscant.

"This is the most magical place I have ever seen, Beru," Owen heard his mother-in-law say to her daughter, "It's even better than what you see in the holovids. I never imagined that a person could bathe in real water every day! And the city is so large, there isn't a farm in sight! And you must see this garden!" They began to drift towards the courtyard, where a massive pond filled with brightly colored fish awaited. Owen fell behind several paces, still quietly contemplating this new turn of events. It felt as though someone were slowly pulling the bricks out from under him. Bit by bit his old life seemed to be crumbling away, or being deliberately destroyed. Owen had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and he was beginning to doubt that these latest few stunts to tie him to Coruscant were Vader's work at all. They were too decisive, too over-reaching. And he and Vader were not so fond of one another that they needed to interact at all... or ever again. Surely Vader was even more eager to see him back on Tatooine than even Owen himself was.

"Sir," the same lieutenant that had ridden with them in the speeder had used Owen's momentary obliviousness to approach him. Owen turned to him, losing sight of Beru and the others as they rounded some tall hedges on the far side of the garden. "You have a visitor," the man informed him.

Owen allowed himself to be led back to the front of the house where things were hushed and austere once again. He noticed that the shades over the massive windows had been lowered, casting the place into a gloomy darkness, but once he laid his eyes upon the first red robed guard he understood the reason.

The Emperor himself was his visitor.

A wave of sickness passed over Owen when he came to the conclusion that the man attempting to manipulate him was someone he could not fight against. It was all so unfair! Why did the Emperor of the galaxy care at all what became of a peasant farmer?

 _Leave me alone!_ Owen wished to scream. But he wasn't a damn kid, so he pulled up his frown and made sure his face was impassive when he reached the imperious figure of the fragile, robed man. He bowed awkwardly from the waist, utterly unsure of what the protocol was in this situation. Farmers shouldn't ever have to deal with Emperors. The gap in the food chain was just too vast. He was a womp rat caught under the stare of a krayt dragon.

With a wave of a withered hand, the red guard fell away to a more comfortable distance.

"Please accept my apologies for intruding upon you like this, Mr. Lars. I simply wished for the opportunity to meet you in a more... informal setting."

"I am honored, Your Majesty," Owen replied stiffly.

"Come, walk with me," the man said, not quite an order, but not a request that could be refused. Owen could see the smile twisting upon his face from beneath the cowl. He fell into step aside the robed figure, and it became clear at once that Palpatine knew his way around the home far better than Owen did. Perhaps he had lived here once long ago? Maybe in his days as the Senator for Naboo? The thought did not sit well with Owen.

"I can feel your unease," Palpatine remarked after they had gone only a short distance. The red guard had lingered behind enough to be out of earshot. It was so surreal to be walking along with the Emperor of the galaxy as if they were old pals catching up. "The last thing I wish to do is distress you, Mr. Lars, after all that you have been through. I was rather hoping we could brush aside all formalities and you and I could speak as equals, man to man."

Owen realized he wanted nothing more. He only knew how to speak to an equal, because he was not in the habit of lowering himself, even when the circumstance called for it.

"Then forgive me for being so tactless as to actually take you up on your offer," the farmer replied, releasing the breath he'd been holding. "Why are you doing this? Instead of bribing me with fancy apartments and dragging my elderly family over from Tatooine why don't you tell me what else you still need from me and why I can't just go home to my farm?" Owen growled. Palpatine chuckled at this. They'd reached a staircase. The Emperor gripped the rail before ascending the steps with more grace and ease than Owen expected.

"I've not heard such bluntness in many years. People here upon Coruscant have a rather nasty habit of beating around the bush," the old man commented. He paused in his ascent for a moment to look down at Owen still standing at the base. "You are a shrewd man, Mr. Lars. You must realize that after last night, returning to your old life is quite impossible. Your name and your face are now known to a great deal of powerful people. You will have enemies, people who will hate you purely for your connection to Lord Vader, people who will seek to get to Anakin through you."

The sound of that name escaping from the Emperor's lips caught Owen off-guard. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it implied a level of intimacy between Emperor and Enforcer that Owen hadn't realized existed. The sly old man seemed to know exactly what he'd just done.

"I've known Anakin since he was very young," Palpatine continued wistfully, "I knew when I first laid eyes upon him that he was destined for greatness. He's come a long way, wouldn't you agree?"

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I never got the chance to know him well," Owen was forced to reply.

"That is a great pity, but I suppose Anakin had his reasons for avoiding his home planet. It holds so many painful memories. He was quite devastated after the ordeal concerning his mother."

"She was a remarkable woman," Owen admitted. Against his better judgment, he could feel his guard slipping as an old anger slithered up. "We were all devastated. He wasn't the only one who lost her."

After reaching the top of the staircase, they soon entered a long enfilade that ended in a sunny balcony. The Emperor seated himself upon an ornate bench and Owen went to the balustrade, noting that he was looking down upon the garden where Beru and her parents were still enjoying themselves near the pond.

"After discovering his son, it seems as though a part of Anakin has been revived," Palpatine said softly as he laid his richly carved wooden cane upon the bench beside him. "I think, though he would not admit to it, he enjoys having others around that he can call his family. After all, he has not had a so-called 'family' since his Jedi days, and they betrayed him so spectacularly."

A bit of white broke up the endless green of the garden. A squad of stormtroopers had entered below from the far doors, and before Owen was left to wonder for too long what their intentions were, they parted and a small, black form broke away from them. Luke ran across the manicured grass and over to Bernice Whitesun, who immediately enfolded him in a warm embrace while the others looked on. Owen could hear the echoes of their laughter bouncing off the courtyard walls. Vader did not seem to have accompanied his son, and it was a good thing, Owen thought, because Beru was still quite uncomfortable around the man, and her parents did not seem to have been given the full story of what had brought Owen to Coruscant.

Nevertheless, Owen entertained a niggling thought. Maybe none of this was so bad.

"You could have it all, Mr. Lars," Palpatine spoke again, as if privy to his thoughts. Another twinge of anxiety hit Owen when he remembered who he was conversing with. "And I do not speak in terms of material things, for I know that is not what appeals to you. Remain here on Coruscant, and you can be with all your loved ones, including your nephew." The Emperor's gaze alighted to the scene playing out below, and Owen imagined that his expression was almost fond. "For many years, you cared for that boy. I can see he is like a son to you and your wife. You would do anything for him, wouldn't you?"

Owen gripped the railing and bowed his head. By the stars this man was smooth! But he'd only be lying to himself if he thought there wasn't truth in it all.

"We are not so different, you and I. Anakin has been like a son to me all these years and I do not wish to see him heartbroken again. Funny, isn't it? Those of us not blessed with children of our own, well, we make do with what fate puts in our path. It does not make our love for them any less."

Owen's resolve had well and truly cracked now. It was as if this man knew exactly how to dismantle all of his minds defenses. He was defeated before the fight had even begun.

"Be that as it may, Your Majesty, even if I stayed on Coruscant, I don't see how I could serve you in any useful capacity. I'm just a farmer, and I'll have you know I'm no leech," Owen said, and it felt only a last, feeble stand. The Emperor chuckled again. Any sadness seemed to have suddenly evaporated, leaving behind just a dark... hunger.

"You'd be nothing of the sort. I'm well informed of your various talents, and it just so happens that I have your new assignment here with me, should you accept." Palpatine produced a datachip from within his thick, velvet robes. "You are to be the new managing director for Seinar Fleet Systems."

"Director?" Owen asked skeptically, "All I've done is repair their TIE's."

"Then you've done a good deal more than most of the senior staff. Perhaps you might take some pleasure in reminding them that the TIE was created for combat, not to line their pockets."

Owen's mind was suddenly abuzz with all the grievances he'd had with the latest fighter models while working on the star destroyer. He remembered the shoddy manufacturing, the errors in the digital components, and that critical design flaw that made it all too easy to engage the autopilot while attempting to manually compensate for power failures. The machine needed to be flawless. Otherwise how were those boys supposed to make it back alive?

Damn this old man for preying upon all his weaknesses, for offering him a way to still keep in touch with Luke and still have the rest of his family nearby, for offering him a job he might actually enjoy. Owen looked down again into the lush garden. The four figures of his wife, her parents, and Luke were now making their way indoors once again, smiling and talking animatedly amongst themselves. Owen had a chance to give them all this luxury for the rest of their lives. What was standing in the way? His pride? He'd always wanted to give Beru everything and now he could. They'd never have to worry about another bad harvest or another raid or another tax hike again. He could take her to fancy dinners and to fancy resorts, and gift her any stupid, expensive bauble that caught his eye.

Slowly Owen reached out to take the datachip that the Emperor still held.

"Still you hesitate," Palpatine noted calmly, as if remaking on the weather, "No other man would."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don't trust you," Owen said even though his hand had already closed upon the datachip and the deal had been brokered. "Ain't no reason a man like you would waste time on a man like me, all imagined family connections aside." From beneath the cowl, Owen could see that the corners of the Emperor's mouth had turned up in a sort of satisfied smirk.

"You'd be a fool to trust me, Mr. Lars." The old man fetched up his stick again and got wearily to his feet. "Trust has no place on Coruscant. Remember that, and you will flourish here. Now, let us return downstairs. I'm sure your wife is beginning to worry where you've gotten off to, and I see no need to disrupt her day by making it known I was here."

Owen stood for another moment in the sun, fingering the datachip absently. Another wave of disbelief passed over him, disbelief over where he was, what he'd done, what he'd become. It was all so surreal. There had to be something going unsaid, some hidden plot or agenda. And what of Vader? Owen had been quite certain that the man would not care to have such a reminder of his old life hanging around Imperial City, and in fact would have been perfectly content to never see him and Beru again. Owen hadn't minded that, after all they lived in two different worlds and always had.

But now? Was he overstaying his welcome? Overstepping his bounds?

Owen shook his head and followed the Emperor back into the shade of the building's interior. There was no use thinking about it now. It wasn't like he had much choice in the matter to start with, and if there were hidden traps and pitfalls ahead, well, Owen had put himself on this path when he made that damned com call. There was no turning back. Not for any of them.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: This super long chapter marks the end of this arc (possibly the end of the story if I decide to be lazy) A lot of people seemed to have stopped reading after Boba Fett's part ended. Ah well, this thing has turned into a monster anyway and was never supposed to be this long.

Chapter 19

Vader sat in a darkening conference room within his wing of the Imperial Palace. Below him on the table was a report from Moff Panaka, detailing the worsening state of some hellhole planet on the fringe of his sector. Vader knew he would have to pay the place a visit soon, or else risk inciting his master's temper.

In truth he had already put it off for far too long. No doubt the third fleet was becoming restless with his extended stay upon Coruscant while they sat awaiting his arrival, unable to move forward without him. Darth Vader was never one to stay too long in a single place, and nothing had yet been able to distract him from his work, or a from a planet in need of Imperial guidance.

Until now.

Such a ridiculous thing to be suddenly melancholy over. He'd lived ten years without the boy. Why should the prospect of being parted with him for mere weeks bring on such depression? Why did nothing else seem to matter? It could not be right for a father to so desperately cling to his son in such a manner. Palpatine would be horrified to discover the extent of his obsession.

The boy had taken the news of his departure with surprising grace, merely nodding and asking when he'd be home.

Home. Yes, the ever cold and unwelcoming Imperial Palace had become _home._ It had only taken a month or so. Like Tatooine, Vader had long ago written off Coruscant as a candidate for _home_. There were too many memories. He could not leave the palace without noticing a particular street corner he and Obi-Wan had once stood, or a fine restaurant he and Padme had once dined at in disguise. And of course, no matter where he was in the city, he need only look north to see the spires of the old Jedi temple, a living reminder of his vilest task performed in service to the Empire.

Vader sat back in his chair, gaze shifting out the viewpane to his left. Coruscant's sun finally dipped below the cityscape and the lights overhead flickered to life in response, washing the room in a jarring brightness.

Yet there was hope now. Those memories could slowly be overwritten with Luke as their new subject... but only after the media frenzy had died down. For now, the child was to be confined to the palace block, lest he become caught in the viewfinder of some unscrupulous reporter's recording device.

He looked back down to the report. He supposed he ought to read it. It wouldn't do for him to venture blindly into hostile territory. Before, it had been part of the excitement. Now, it was an unnecessary risk if he meant to return to Luke at the end of it.

Vader noticed a signature in the Force approaching long before it was at the door to the conference room. He sensed it walk right past the stormtroopers standing guard at the end of the hall and had to reign in his annoyance. Since when had his personal security decided that damn farmer could just come and go whenever he pleased?

Vader used the Force to open the door as Lars reached it. The man had paused in his stride, and then continued inside with an odd look at the red light indicating that the room was occupied and locked. He wore his new uniform as awkwardly as he'd worn his coveralls on the _Vindicator_ , like he was in a silly costume he didn't much care for. It was black and deliberately cut in the same fashion that a Moff generally wore, but there was no rank badge due to the fact that Lars' new post was technically a civilian one. He'd pinned his white star on his breast, but it appeared something of an afterthought.

The two of them had not spoken face to face since arriving on Coruscant.

"So," Vader began, and he saw no reason to be soft with the man. "He managed to buy you after all." There could be no doubt about whom Vader was referring to. The farmer went stiff and the beginnings of a snarl appeared on his face before the fight abruptly fled from him as he seemed to think better of it.

"Call it what you will, alright? 'Bought' is too simple a word. He rolled out the welcome caravan and courted me properly, for reasons beyond my understanding." the farmer came up to the table and put his hands on the polished wood. "Tell me what he wants with me. I don't want to be part of some messed up game. I've got enough troubles wading through this political quicksand as it is."

"I do not claim to know all that passes through the Emperor's mind," Vader replied. "I can assure you, however, that I was all for sending you back to that scrap pile you call a farm."

"I don't doubt it," Owen said dryly, clearly not all that grateful. He stood up straight again and the scowl fell away from his face. He reached into his pocket and fished out a worn datachip, setting it on the table between them both.

"I'm not sure if this will mean anything to you, but I think you ought to have it anyway. Took forever for the paperwork to go through. They thought I was a few hairs short of a Wookie for wanting to re-open files on a dead man."

Curious, Vader took the small object and inserted it into the datareader currently displaying his report. The contents of the screen changed immediately, opening a document displaying bold wording at the top and a seal that he immediately recognized. It belonged to Tatooine's slave registry. Though he could feel his expression darken, he continued onto the finer print underneath. The first few pages were a bill of sale, dated a few decades past, detailing the transaction that had sold Shmi Skywalker to Cliegg Lars. He recognized Watto's signature scrawled at the bottom in a messy hand, remembered from all those times young Anakin had sat watching his mother meticulously forging documents for the Toydarian.

The next file was a second bill of sale, this one for Anakin Skywalker. It seemed, for whatever reason, Cliegg Lars had purchased him as well, even though at that time he'd already left the planet and was well on his way to becoming a Jedi Knight. The foolish farmer ought to not have wasted his money.

Opening the following file, he saw it was his mother's Certificate of Emancipation. It must have been put through sometime before her marriage, as a free man on Tatooine could not legally marry a slave. Vader bowed his head as he remembered something he'd once spoken long ago.

" _I will come back and free you, mom. I promise."_

It was the source of some of his greatest guilt, that foolish promise made by Anakin Skywalker. He'd never fulfilled it, never even remembered to try until he had sensed her in pain. By then it had been too late. Some half-wit farmer had stepped in to do the deed that a Jedi could not. Cliegg Lars, Vader was forced to concede, may have been a useless man, but at least he'd done one honorable thing in his life.

Why did Owen Lars imagine these files would be of any interest to Darth Vader? All of this was in the past and part of a life belonging to another man. Vader opened the last document, intending to skim it quickly and then berate Lars for his idiocy.

It was another Certificate of Emancipation and it was dated very recently. This one belonged to Anakin Skywalker, though it was noted that the slave in question had been deceased for several years at the time the document had been drawn up. Vader found himself staring at it for much longer than he'd intended, surprised to see his name on the screen again. To have one of these certificates in hand was the dream of all of Tatooine's enslaved. It was the only real road to becoming a human being. It was the only real road of escape.

Completely useless. Redundant. Vader had been free nearly all his life, and some pathetic document with his name on it should mean nothing. Somehow, his fingers had still curled possessively around the datareader. Hopefully, Lars had not noticed.

"Why would you even waste your time on this?" he asked the farmer, because he still could not comprehend it. What did the man gain? What was there left for him to gain? Did Lars truly not realize, that due to Palpatine's manipulations, he was currently the most favored man in the Empire?

"I certainly didn't do it for you, if that's what you were worried about," Lars growled. "It was something that my father started before his death. Just thought I outta see his work done. Besides, it was the right thing to do, not to mention necessary for me to look you in the face properly." Vader extracted the datachip and crushed it in his palm. Lars let out an exasperated noise.

"The gesture is appreciated," Vader said reluctantly, because, try as he might, he could not deny the sudden warmth he felt. "You are instructed to destroy all copies you may have made of that document."

"There are no copies," Lars answered dully. "And I didn't come here just to flatter you with it. I came to get Luke. Where is he? I was told you were leaving." The minuscule spark of... affection he'd felt for the farmer dissipated immediately. This insufferable man needed to cease demanding things of him. And _who_ had told him of Vader's imminent departure? Perhaps a pruning of his personal staff was in order. However, most worryingly...

"I sent the boy to your apartments under heavy guard several hours ago," Vader said, suddenly very confused. Lars, as well, looked puzzled. "Are you telling me he never arrived?"

.o.o.o.o.o.

Time had ceased to exist. There was only dark and light, pain and respite, red and white. Sometimes he remembered who he'd been and where he'd come from, but he'd been so long in this place that he'd begun to wonder if that life had ever happened. Other times he was pulled into a more primitive state of mind, one where he cared only about the various agonies he felt and his simple wish for the darkness to just take him in its peaceful embrace.

Food was brought at irregular intervals by a droid and sometimes that was the only break in the monotony for what seemed like days on end. In the beginning, he plotted escape. He spent endless hours contemplating how to disable the locks, where the ventilation shafts might be located, if the food droid might be reprogrammed to aid him. Now, he'd abandoned all hope, lost all desire for his own freedom. His will to fight had been drained and what was left was only a hollow, broken shell of a man.

There was one visitor, only ever one.

The ray shield that served as the door to the cell wavered for a moment, enough for the second figure to enter. The prisoner did not even raise his eyes, preferring to stare blankly at the opposite wall.

"How are you this evening, Master Kenobi?" the old man asked, all pleasant innocence. And Obi-Wan pretended for a moment, as he always did, that this man was a friend genuinely interested in his well-being. He also took note of the word 'evening,' and immediately felt more secure after learning the current time of day. In this cell the lights were always on and there was no way to know. It mattered little, however. Within a rotation's time, he would once again be utterly unsure.

With the aid of the Force, Obi-Wan was suddenly hauled up by the restraints upon his calloused and scarred wrists. He allowed his head to hang limply upon his chest.

"There's nothing... left for me to say. Please, have mercy," Obi-Wan began his usual, tired pleas, aware that they'd not had any affect on the creature before him as of yet. He did not beg for anything but death anymore, but it seemed even that was too much to ask. He'd told Sidious all his secrets. All his little ones. There were others, he knew, big ones, terrible ones, but he'd buried them so deep he did not even remember them himself. It was necessary. If he could remember, then Sidious would see, so he'd used the Force to lock them away.

"There will be no mercy for you, Master Kenobi. You were not inclined to give it to poor Anakin on Mustafar, and neither am I inclined to give it to you today."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, guilt flooding him anew. So many mistakes. All his fault. All his responsibility. Nausea came with the guilt. Nausea for the man before him. The Emperor spoke so softly, so indulgently, as if he were a kindly grandfather explaining to a child why he could not have a candy he was begging for.

"Let's begin, shall we? Your mental shields are impressive, but I do believe that after this night, my victory will be complete."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Luke wandered the halls of the Imperial Palace, hopelessly lost. He'd thought it would be fun to run away from his guards, maybe then he might find a way to follow his father to wherever he was going, but now he was regretting his decision. The palace was so large that it was impossible to tell where he was inside, and there were so many twists and turns that he wasn't even able to retrace his steps back the way he'd come. The corridors were empty and unfamiliar, without a single person in sight.

A long rug ran the length of the narrow hall, and Luke's hushed footsteps were the only sound in the overwhelming silence. He reached a lift and suddenly felt a bit of relief. Maybe if he could go down to the ground floor, he could go outside and back into the palace from the entrance he knew. He hit a promising button of the lift's panel and the doors whisked shut.

Down, down he went and it felt like he was going down much further than he'd gone up. Luke waited impatiently as each button lit up in between. When finally the doors opened again, Luke found himself in a place completely unlike the floors above. There were no decorations on the walls, no statues or rugs. The lights were harsh and fluorescent and everything was white. It reminded Luke of the medi-center on the star destroyer.

Slowly, Luke began to walk. He was pretty sure he was underground, but he still searched for daylight or any door that might lead him outside. In the next corridor there was a set of heavy blast doors that seemed to require a retinal scan or a code cylinder to enter. However, they stood open and waiting, giving a tantalizing view of a long hall beyond. The promise of seeing something forbidden was too much for Luke to resist. Maybe this was the detention level, or maybe it was some sort of super secret laboratory like in the holovids. He crept hesitantly inside.

A group of uniformed men were approaching and Luke ducked into an open doorway that proved to be some sort of storage closet. It would be so embarrassing to be caught wandering and taken back to his father or Uncle Owen.

And there was something down here. Something in this mind that told him he was going the right way.

Luke was about to leave his hiding place when another group turned a corner into the hallway. These men were wearing red. Most of them walked right past him, but the one at the end in the black cloak stopped next to his open doorway and stood there for a long time. Luke held his breath.

"Why don't you come out of there, child? There is no need for shyness." the man said eventually. Luke recognized the voice, though it took him a moment to place it. He'd heard it in the Emperor's throne room.

Stars! This man was the Emperor!

Luke's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. What should he do? Was he about to be scolded? Maybe the Emperor would decide to lock him up for sneaking around his palace. Still, Luke had no choice but to step out of the storage room. Immediately, one of the red guards took his arm in a tight grip, and Luke was so frightened that he tried to pull away without thinking.

"Stand down, Captain," the Emperor said gently. "This is Lord Vader's boy." Luke's arm was released, but the old man was not finished speaking to Luke. "How did you get down here, child? This is a restricted area." To Luke's relief, he did not sound mad. His voice was very calm.

"I, I felt something," Luke stuttered. "And the lift took me down here and the door was open."

"Oh dear, that is a problem," the Emperor answered. He turned to his guards and his voice took on a lower, meaner tone. "Go investigate this." The red figures bowed and left Luke alone with the old man. The corridor became quiet again.

"Tell me about this thing you felt, child," the Emperor said softy, in the same kind of way Aunt Beru would ask him to tell about his nightmares.

"I could hear a man screaming... in my mind," Luke answered reluctantly, knowing it sounded kind of crazy. But he usually wasn't wrong about things that happened in his mind. "Maybe he's down here. Maybe we can help him." Underneath the hood, Luke saw the Emperor's face turn sad.

"I'm sorry child, but there is no help for the poor souls down here. They are quite insane, a danger to both themselves and others."

Luke gazed down the corridor in the direction that the Emperor had come, now very certain that the voice belonged to someone down that way. "Perhaps you'd like to see for yourself?" the man offered. Luke nodded slowly. "Come then, only for a moment."

The Emperor led him down the hall and Luke followed eagerly. They passed many doors with Aurebesh letters and numbers. He could read some letters, but not whole words because they were long and on Tatooine, most things were written in Huttese. At the end of the hall, they entered a durasteel door. Behind it was a small room and at the other end was a ray shielded opening. Luke went to peer inside while the Emperor hung back patiently.

There was a man in there. He was sitting against the wall and looking down at the floor. His feet were bare and his clothes were old and dirty. His hair was grey and he had a long beard, but Luke could still notice that the left side of his face was misshapen, like someone had punched him really hard and the bones did not heal right. Luke saw that his wrists were in binders and that they were smeared brown with dried blood. He looked old and weak and harmless.

The man glanced up at him after Luke stood there for a while. His eyes also flickered to the Emperor and then looked away, disinterested.

"Perhaps, if you tell him your name, he will tell you his," the Emperor prompted. Luke frowned, but took a step closer to the ray shield.

"Um... hi," he began. "My name is Luke Skywalker." Luke winced then, remembering that he wasn't supposed to use his old last name, but the Emperor didn't seem to have minded.

The man in the cell did nothing at first, his eyes, though they still stared at the floor, had gone wide and the pupils dilated. Then they came to Luke again, and this time they weren't blank. They held him in their depths for a while, and there was so much sadness that Luke felt like he was drowning for a moment.

Tears streamed down the ragged man's cheeks and disappeared into the thick of his beard. His mouth began to move but no sound came out.

"No," the man finally choked. "No! Nononono." He descended into incomprehensible sobs, face crumpling. He fell onto his side and curled up into a ball, body shuddering violently.

Luke was shocked and disturbed. He'd never seen an adult cry like that before. Adults were supposed to be strong. He took an involuntary step back and he felt the Emperor's firm hand on his shoulder.

"You've done all you can, child. This creature is beyond help." Luke, still quite dumbstruck, did not notice the victorious grin playing upon the Emperor's lips. He allowed the cloaked man to guide him from the room. The durasteel doors of the antechamber closed behind them once they were out in the corridor again.

They walked along in silence for a while until they had nearly reached the lifts. The red guards stood waiting for them at the end of the hall.

"I think we've had enough adventure for today," Emperor Palpatine said to Luke with a wink. "Let us return you to Lord Vader, as he is surely beside himself with worry. And perhaps we could keep these events a secret from him. That way, neither of us has to get in trouble."

Luke felt the smile grow on his own face as he slowly came back to himself. He might just sort of like this man.

.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: No, it's not a happy ending if you are rebel scum. But if you are a good citizen that is loyal to your Empire then it is the happiest ending in the galaxy. If I do end up writing a new arc or a sequel, you can expect it to focus on Obi-Wan. Thanks all for your support!


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